For Every Evil 2
by Mirrordance
Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all toomodern foe: bioterrorism.
1. Where We Stand

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Warnings: Before reading, **please be note that-

(1) This installment of For Every Evil will be unabashedly, no-holds-barred modern. Yes, there will be expletives, but no more than what you'd hear on a regular basis in life. Yes, there will be just a huge amount of technological references and a lot of Starbucks jokes. I really hope I won't be getting any flames from anyone looking for a more canonical take on the story, because that was what FEE1 was for. The tone and objective of FEE2 is drastically different. I'd cite my afterword at the end of FEE 1 to illustrate the difference and the reasons why:

"Anyway, FOR EVERY EVIL 2, presently untitled, is going to be drastically modern. I look to For Every Evil 1 as a bit of a transition from the original LOTR to the modern AU. It's style, the parallelisms and themes, were all geared toward helping the reader make a comfortable shift from seeing beloved characters in older times to seeing them in modern day. Once that is established, I feel more comfortable going into second gear—a really modern piece with really modern themes."

Similarly, the tone and objective of FEE3 will be different from FEE1 and FEE2. The readers who know me best know that I have a thing for circular structures that will demand a 'return' to the beginning. The first LOTR trilogy I made featured this, and undoubtedly (as I am currently working on FEE3) this trilogy will have that same trait. But that note is going to be more important at a later time :)

(2) This installment of FEE will feature as its main characters: Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Haldir, Boromir, Elladan and Elrohir only. To all the hobbit fans, and those who were counting on Faramir, Eowyn and Eomer, I must apologize. The story just moved away from them. As I said before in my FEE1 notes, traditionally we expect many characters to be present, but I have to be economical:

"...the story is complex enough, without me having to 'force' characters into a fic just because I feel 'they have to be there' when I cannot yet think of a real purpose for them. As I said, if there's a gun in the first scene, there's a body in the next. Everyone has to have a place."

So, there. These are warnings I felt I had to make from the very start. I know some will be reading FEE2 to, say, look for the happy hobbit gang, and I'd hate to disappoint them if they found none. I sincerely hope that many will keep reading for the sake of the story, although I also understand the risks of losing part of my audience. Personally, I'm a character-driven reader and when I don't see who I like, I shy away from a story, which is why I just thought you should know, to avoid grief, haha:)

So, without further ado... For Every Evil 2 (that is, after the FEE1 recap!) :)

* * *

0: Where We Stand

_A Brief Summary of For Every Evil 1_

* * *

It was late in 2003 of the modern age when Elladan--the reputedly more level-headed son of Imladris-- lost his mind and heart for socialite Anatalia Craxi. Anatalia, an heiress to a multi-billion dollar media company, unearthed photographs of various incarnations of Legolas Greenleaf spanning from 1585 to 1940. Intrigued, she set out to investigate further so that she could write and publish a book about him.

In the meantime, the elf in question was living a fairly normal life in Los Angeles, California. Legolas Greenleaf was now known as Detective Leland Greene of the LAPD—skilled, intelligent, amicable bachelor with his modest salary a stark contrast to his affluent, indulgent, secret, _elven _lifestyle.

Elrohir and Elladan tracked Legolas down, and the three old friends reunited after centuries apart. Immortal elves in this time of quiet wistfully remembered past friends and past events, and what they've done in all their years of living amidst the changes of the world. For one thing, Legolas had acquired a taste for Starbucks. Elladan was in love with a divorcee. And Elrohir had cable TV installed in fair Imladris.

Things got complicated when they started running into present incarnations of old friends: Gandalf was an enigmatic street prophet, Aragorn shared the face and spirit of Adrian Aarons, a doctor in Los Angeles. Haldir, Gimli, Boromir, Faramir, Eowyn, Eomer, Frodo, Sam, Merry and the irrepressible Mr. Took also made returns.

However, as surely as old friends were reclaimed, old enemies were rediscovered also. Grima Wormtongue, in a desperate mission to save his future from repeating his pathetic past, became the ultimate, mad villain on a quest for power and control, unwilling to be anyone's servant any more. He searched frantically for the Ring of Power, firmly believing that if all the old heroes were back, there must be a Ring or some incarnation of it in the present also.

The tale took our heroes from America to Austria to England and Italy, finally coming to a rest after a wild encounter in Turkey and the Black Sea, and the realization that though the Ring of Power didn't exist in the twenty-first century, second chances at another kind of life certainly did.

Emerging weary but victorious, the New Fellowship set out to face their next big adventure: more of the future.

Legolas Greenleaf, in the guise of Leland Greene, returned to California to face the ire of his boss the station Captain, and the boundless curiosity of his partner Rafe Montes.

Aragorn continued the life of loveless Adrian Aarons as a doctor in L.A.

Gimli the ex-dwarf (a.k.a. Jimmy Goran, six plus plus feet tall, professional hacker) joined Haldir the ex-elf, as the rawest recruit of the International Criminal Police Organization.

Elladan, having already lost his heart to Anatalia Craxi, was also set to lose his ages-long bachelorhood and a fair share his sanity as she, along with her mother Giovanna, her irate father Marcelo, and their effeminate wedding planner take over his life.

Speaking of weddings, Fred/Faramir is honeymooning across Europe with his destined wife Eunice/Eowyn. His brother Brad Greer, having survived Boromir of Gondor's written fate of dying as a hero in the prime of his life, took up a new career with the Centers for Disease Control. It is through his eyes that their new adventure begins, out in the dry, dusted, intoxicatingly exotic streets of Eastern Africa.


	2. Antiques 2

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

1: Antiques 2 

Kinshasa Highway,

Africa

* * *

Some have claimed that these organisms were amongst the truest, oldest inhabitants of the Earth. No one knew how they came to be, or from where. They simply…_were_. 

These organisms were some of the aged land's grandest mysteries, and also unfortunately some of its most vicious killers. They were predators of the best kind— many, certainly, have died of catching them. Or perhaps… these organisms- these viruses- weren't illnesses one caught, like the common cold. To catch such things gave the impression of one's greater-ness, as if one were stronger, as if one stood a chance. No… these viruses caught _you_. Killed _you_. _Devoured _you.

Darwin once said that in this world, the fittest survived. These killers hunted so well, they could devour humanity. It seemed only a miracle that they have not, at least, not just yet.

Brad Greer, who once was known as Boromir of Gondor some countless years ago, mused on such things as he walked about the infamous paved, concrete road called the Kinshasa Highway, known in certain circles as the AIDS Highway.

_Why it looks just like any other road_, he decided. But then a little thing called the Ring of Power looked just like any other ring too. And what havoc it had wrought…

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Brad looked to the woman beside him. Her name was Chandra Bouvier, an older female colleague. Her voice was rough and heady with her French accent, a voice that matched her weathered smile. She must have been a looker back in the day, still was as a matter of fact, but she had the bad habit of constantly looking after him along the course of their trip in a manner that was so disturbingly motherly that it was killing any finer fantasies.

"Sure is," Brad agreed.

"I know it's your first time here," she said to him authoritatively, "But you have to trust me when I say it never dies. The… how do you say…"

"Awe?" Brad finished for her.

"Yes," she smiled again, "It never dies."

"Over the highway?" he asked, chuckling a little.

"Africa," she said to him primly, as if it should have been plain, "In general. But Kinshasa too, sure."

Their convoy of Land Rovers was pulled up along the side of the road. The bevy of intellectual passengers felt the need to stop along the highway and mull over how it may have changed the face of the world, pilgrimage-style. The party of travelers made for a group of twelve, most of them doctors.

Chandra was a French expatriate who was more a local than a foreigner. Africa was home to her, and she had been a practitioner here for decades. Her Swahili was far better than her heavily accented English, and she spoke it comfortably with their local drivers and guides. The rest of the party comprised of Americans like Brad, and also like him, they were part of the Centers for Disease Control, having flown all the way from Georgia to Africa for an epidemiological survey. It's been reported that several local fishermen have died possibly due to a new and violent strain of hemorrhagic fever. Three fatalities so far, though it was often hard to tell in Africa, with the admittedly poor state of healthcare. Other cases could have gone unreported.

A delivery truck of miscellaneous fruits and vegetables passed them by. It chugged along with a choked gurgle, hinting broadly of an ancient engine and a very determined driver. It was not such a rare sight, but their eyes trailed the truck until it was almost out of sight.

Kinshasa Highway did indeed look like most types of road. It cleaved across Africa, West to East. It crossed desserts and rain forests, a telling sign of development, and also undoubtedly an infringement on nature too, pressing persistently straight into its virgin heart.

The telling signs that humans were cutting too quickly and too deeply into territory that belonged to someone else was spread across the world. In Florida, people sometimes found crocodiles in their swimming pools. In California, mountain lions in their yards. In Africa, the deadliest diseases from the most secret places of the Earth made their leaps into the human population.

AIDS, for instance, was hypothesized as having come from an African primate who made his home in the rain forest. Perhaps a man was bitten. Or he hunted and ate monkey meat. Or got bitten by a tick. Either way, AIDS broke into the human race. How it may have spread, gave Kinshasa its "AIDS Highway" nickname.

"It's more of an urban legend, actually," Chandra said, knowing that she and Brad were both thinking along the same lines, "Just a theory, amongst many others, pharmaceutical conspiracies and world markets included. But still. The numbers are intriguing."

As the Highway brought in growth and development, towns sprouted along its length here and there. And then lone travelers and particularly, truckers and enterprising women and sex workers had their way with each other. And then from one man catching AIDS from the rain forest through which the Kinshasa Highway cut, it made its way from him to a paid woman, to her next man, to his next woman, to the children she would have, to their spouses, and their children after them… it was an exponential nightmare. And then years later, millions of people around the world were dead or dying from the disease.

_And it looks like any other road_, Brad thought again. He took a snapshot with his digital camera, a photo of the length of the road lined sporadically by snatches of homes and brushes and trees that led into thicker forests.

"What is amazing too," added Chandra, "Is the relative kindness of our punishment for infringing here."

"Kindness?" Brad murmured distractedly, as he took more pictures.

"Some diseases that originate from here work much faster and much more brutally than AIDS," she replied, taking his camera from him and waving at him to strike a pose of Indiana-Jones spirit as she took his photograph, "Ebola breakout in the 70's. I was here during that debacle. Ten-day killer, 90 percent of the time. I burned corpses of many friends, though they looked like monsters and they felt like moldy jelly by then. They screamed and they cried and they shook and they bled. I promise you're going to be asking God 'Why.'"

She returned the camera to him and he looked at the photograph. She was apparently very lousy at taking photos, and half of his face was cut off. He deleted it but said nothing.

"Were you scared?" he asked.

"I wasn't fool enough not to be," she said grimly, "Time and again you tell yourself to run. Get away. Leave them."

"And the other times?" he asked.

"And then you remember you're a doctor," she replied.

"And then you stay," he finished, without doubt.

"You are indeed one of us, Greer," she said, approving.

"I'm just a lab guy," he corrected her.

"Close enough," she shrugged, and her eyes took on a cloudy shade, "Many people left, you know. It was quiet, save for the struggling breaths and the final wails of those abandoned. I was barely breaking past twenty years old. I was surprised I didn't die. I still am. Young people should not see such things. Ultimately though, it was people leaving that ceased the spread of the virus."

"What do you mean?" Greer asked.

"It killed too quickly," she replied, "The disease could only live inside people. Once it burned through everyone, with the few remaining being highly protected and informed like we were, there was no one left to infect. And then the epidemic ended."

"You were a doctor already in the seventies?" he asked, brows furrowing as his eyes teased her, willing to diffuse the considerable weight of her memories. She ignored the glib completely.

Another truck passed them by, and as in the one before, their eyes trailed after it. It slowed as it neared them, and then sped up again. The face of the lone driver was a very memorable one by most standards. He had a shock of red hair that covered one eye, and the rest of his mane was an even less natural cherry-blond, given that his face had a more Asian look to it. He vanished down the road.

"Tourist," Chandra said with a shrug, dismissively, as if she had not ever been one herself. "Here comes more," she said, nodding toward an approaching black truck. It too slowed as it neared their convoy, and to Brad's complete and utter surprise, a familiar blond head popped out from the shade of the vehicle.

Interpol Agent Horace Harding, as Haldir of Lothlorien was going by these days, looked as stunned as he, and they blinked at each other for a long moment.

"Boromir!" came the jovial voice of the ex-dwarf from Harding's passenger seat. Jimmy Goran was more openly joyous at the sight of Brad.

"Jimmy," Brad waved at Gimli, pointedly using his 'modern' name. "Heya, Harding," he nodded to Haldir, as he reached for their hands in greeting.

"You folk need any help?" Haldir asked him.

"Oh no," replied Brad, "We just stopped by to look around."

Haldir glanced at Brad's traveling companions. "I have heard of a CDC team dropping by. I didn't know you'd be amongst them."

"Oh, didn't anyone tell you?" Brad asked, "I got a spiffy job offer from them some months ago. A couple of weeks back, I decided to accept."

"We've been away from the country," Harding replied cryptically.

"So what brings you two out here?" asked Brad, "Business or pleasure?"

"What else brings us anywhere together," grumbled Jimmy, "Are you coming or going? Coming from where, going where…?"

"Landed just hours ago," replied Brad, "Haven't even gotten to where we're supposed to go-- Kasensero, a bit down south."

Harding gave him a sidelong glance. "I've heard of an outbreak there."

"How do you hear about things that I do not hear about?" demanded Gimli, "We're together all the time!"

"Nothing I have the privilege to talk to you about," winced Brad, "But I suspect information isn't too hard to come by in your line of work—you might even know more about it than I do. And you fellows? What are you up to?"

"We're still finding that out," Harding replied, with a tinge of irony at some 007 joke only he could understand.

"Well, be careful," Goran said to Boromir.

"Aren't I always?" smirked Boromir.

"Isn't he always?" repeated Gimli, mocking. "Come now, boy. You've come too long and too far to be careless now."

"Right," sighed Boromir, "You sound like Legolas."

"No," denied Gimli, "That one is a hypocrite, who won't follow his own advice. And his delivery is much more primly disapproving, you must admit. Not at all unlike how your own mother or mine would say it."

"We must go," said Harding, cutting off the conversation as he looked toward the road ahead, "But do call, we might have time for tea."

"I don't know," said Boromir with a nervous laugh, "I'm kind of like a low-ranking dog here, they just tell me what to do and where to go. And to think I got out of LA to keep Aragorn from bossing me around, ha. Besides," he added wryly, "Last time I got into a row with the two of you, I didn't come out so pretty."

"Well old friend," said Gimli, "You learn quicker than I. I should have known I'd get into dire straits when the damned elf offered me for a job as his partner."

Brad reached over and shook both their hands warmly, once more. "Be careful, guys. I will see you soon."

He watched the truck vanish into the distance, and simply smiled when the baffled Dr. Bouvier beside him asked, "Did that fellow there say something about elves?"

* * *

The Estate of Imladris, 

Vienna, Austria

* * *

There was a saying he heard from somewhere some time ago. It's said that if you want to know how a woman will age, go have a look at the mother, and then see if you still wanted to spend the rest of your life with her. Elladan was finding that the saying had a remarkable ring of truth to it. 

His long legs were stretched before him as he rebelliously slouched in what last he checked was his living room, until closer inspection made him realize that it had in fact already been taken over by hostile forces.

Rivendell, he feared, had been taken by the enemy at last, taken by a betrayal from within.

_At least she said 'yes...'_

Anatalia Craxi, the love of his eternal life, her mother Giovanna and The Wedding Planner have laid siege to fair Imladris, and it was captive in their demented, collective imagination.

"Citrine," the two women and the effeminate man breathed, triumphant, as if they've suddenly come to a wild, world-altering revelation after a rather lengthy and confusing debate that shifted from English to Italian and then back again and then over again. And then, as if in a nightmare, they all turned and looked at him with their eyes alight, expecting he was still abreast of what they were talking about.

Elladan smiled at them beatifically. Oh if he didn't love her so much he'd have been out that door fifty years ago...

"Excuse me?" he murmured in reply. He'd never been known for inattention, but this was ridiculous. He was surprised they could even understand each other.

Anatalia and her mother rolled their eyes at him, the former muttering he was just like her father, at the same time that Giovanna said the same of her husband. In that instant, Elladan was certain he'd been written-off as useless in this enterprise, and that was a profound relief to him. No more crazy questions, damn it. He just wanted her to be his wife forever.

"This is not my forte," he said belatedly, although what he truly wanted to say was that he didn't care for citrine, he was simply ready to elope. However, he diplomatically spun in a slight, apologetic smile that was certainly enough to wring a sympathetic one from his fiancée. Ana returned the sheepish look at once.

"I am sorry, Elladan," she said, her thick accent dancing over the syllables of his name, "There is only one of me in this family. All the _loco_ of weddings and families and grandchildren is highly concentrated."

He smiled and nodded in understanding. But oh how he wished his own entire family was here to give the both of them twice the insanity and four times the headache. "Would you ladies mind of I stepped out for a breath?"

"You can get Elrohir to sit in your stead," Ana laughed, "He looks just like you, and you don't say anything anyway."

"He fled from here hours ago," Elladan said good-naturedly, teasing her, "Cleverer than I it seems, though we look alike."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

The United States of America

* * *

They met in a classroom in Los Angeles. 

They instantly liked the look of him: aristocratic, ageless. He was just so beautiful. He had a curious pair of ears, longer than the usual. Not that very many of them noticed, for there was a host of great things that were unusual about him: his eyes were a stunning frosted blue, and looked at things and people sometimes warmly, sometimes imperviously. He'd win a staring game by a mile, as if he had all the time in the world (because he did, actually). His hair was spun gold, his face was chiseled by what surely must have been a pair of godly hands. His voice was even and melodious, carefully accented in this particularly high-brow British way...

Or maybe he was deeply and profoundly entrancing simply because his precocious audience of seven-year-olds learned that he _actually _owned a gun! A gun! They were quite preoccupied by the thought, asking if he always brought it with him, if he ever shot anybody, if he ever got shot, could they see the scars please _please please_, et cetera, et cetera.

Legolas glanced at the teacher, genuinely wondering if he had to censor himself for violence. The old woman just urged him to continue with wide, excited eyes from beneath her thick glasses. Her arms were flailing, making her look a bit mad with her unkempt white, curly hair. She was encouraging him along as if he himself was just seven years of age, instead of the actual _seven ages_ give or take.

The children were sitting before him in a semi-circle as he stood on the raised platform, explaining to them what he did for a living, wanting to encourage them to be in the police force themselves when they got older.

_In all my innumerable years of living_, he thought, with some bleak, black humor, _I've never felt this much short-changed! _

With his face plastered all over the major newspapers and human interest magazines in Los Angeles after that insane incident in Europe the year before, he unwittingly became a bit of an adored public figure. The definitive Face of the LAPD, as the mayor who had given him an award once said to his chagrin, 'a model of what the Police force stands for.'

The ribbing in the station was pretty severe, to say the least, bearable only by the thought that he was certain life could probably be infinitely worse.

Still, when he was a warrior in the War of the Ring, or a soldier in the World Wars, at least his roles were more clear. Fight to the death for an ideal, receive the fair gratitude of a public always in search of a hero, then live out a quiet life.

Such was no longer the case, though. It was an age of celebrity. For instance, back in the War of the Ring, he never imagined he'd one day respectfully decline a shampoo endorsement, barely restraining his laughter, after being told that the start-up company was considering a rather horrible tag for him: _Bad Hair is a Fashion Crime_.

And then a few weeks ago, in the middle of a children's birthday party in the home of his partner Rafe Montes, seven-year-old Mikey asked if the famous Detective Leland Greene could please be in his show and tell?

All heads had expectantly turned his way: Rafe's, his wife Julianna's, all their children's, all the other kids who were there. It was Mikey's birthday. How could he have said no?

"_Oh for god's sake, Montes," Legolas remembered growling to Rafael, his voice drowned out by Mikey's jumping cheers. Julianna was giving him one of those approving mother-smiles. Even Diana, Julianna's younger sister, whom he once dated and who has since been annoyed at him for avoiding her, was looking fairly impressed._

"_What?" Montes asked him obtusely, "Kid's been bragging about knowing you, man. He sure hasn't been bragging about his daddy."_

"_But Montes," whined the elf uncharacteristically, "Don't they bring pets and weird inventions to these things, not people? I'm going to look like a circus act."_

But he'd already given his word, and the word of Legolas of Mirkwood had always been cast in _mithril_. Besides, his boss the Captain, who was still very much irked at him for all of his recent misadventures, decided to give him the un-enviable task of being a goodwill ambassador to the schools to encourage enlistment to the police force.

"_Enlistment?" he had asked, incredulous, "But sir, they are only seven years old!"_

"_It's never too early to start, Greene," the Captain barked at him, "Like an investment. But if it satisfies you, _lieutenant_, let's just say _I_ told you to go and it ends there."_

And so here he was.

"So you have a gun right now?" a pert-nosed little girl asked him, looking a bit suspicious.

"Yes," replied Legolas, "But I know how to keep it safe around you, not to worry."

"Why don't women cops get to come over and talk to us?" a burly boy asked him.

"I'm not sure…" Legolas began, but the answer seemed to be more than a little bit unsatisfying. Admitting lack of knowledge was apparently lowering his stature as resident adult. "Well they are busier than me."

"How come?" the boy pressed.

"Well," Legolas paused, racking his brain desperately, "Well they work, right? And then when they get home, they have to cook, and clean, and take care of the children…"

His answer was making the teacher frown.

The pert-nosed little girl raised up her hand. "Lieutenant, I think that's called the Double Burden."

Legolas felt his cheeks flush.

_Little girl_, he thought darkly, _I think you read too much…_

"Really, Lieutenant Greene," the annoyed teacher approached him after the short question and answer session, asking, "Your ideas are surprisingly archaic. Whatever _era _did you come from?"

"Um," was all he could find it in his brain to say, before his mobile phone started to ring. He deftly plucked it from the holster on his belt and placed the handy Nokia to his ear, saying, "Greene."

It was Montes. The news turned his blood cold, but his features were carefully composed, as he thanked the teacher and the class for their time and interest, and excused himself.

There was a drive-by shooting, involving one of his informants. If there was one thing more ancient than him in the world, it probably was that people were still trying very hard to kill each other.

To be continued...


	3. Missing Pieces

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

2: Missing Pieces

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Legolas was unsurprised to find that the expert hands who handled the bullet-ridden body of Bill "Rabid" Sanchez was none other than his old friend Aragorn, known in this life as Adrian Aarons.

Aragorn walked toward Legolas in the waiting hall, neatly garbed in deep green scrubs with his wild man's hair hidden beneath a floral cap. He looked... wistful. The expression was faintly sympathetic, fairly detached, the look of a true doctor bearing the worst of news.

"You've heard the preliminary reports before he came into my OR," Adrian told his friend quietly, without preamble, "You knew there was slim to no chance. What chance we had, we took. And we fought. But the odds were stacked unfairly high."

"I know," Legolas breathed, "But I hoped."

"As was right," Aragorn assured him.

"Did..." Legolas hesitated, wanting to ask if the boy suffered, before removing the thought entirely from his mind. Of course he suffered. There was a rain of gunfire on that street, out in open daylight. The bullets tore into Bill's body one by one, one after the other. There was a boy with Sanchez and that one died instantly, the torrent was that strong. But the paramedics arrived to find Bill Sanchez _awake_, aware and afraid.

"Your ballistics team is already inside," Aragorn told him, "Gathering the bullets we pulled out."

"How many?" Legolas asked.

"Eleven," Aragorn replied.

Legolas ran a hand over his face, shifting to his native Elvish, 'I may have had something to do with this. He was an informant to us.'

Aragorn just stared at him for a long moment, not offering any false assurances.

'And the other one?' Aragorn asked instead, 'The kid who died with him?'

'No,' Legolas replied, shaking his head, 'He was probably hit in the crossfire. Or implicated unfairly by virtue of the company he kept. No witnesses, can you believe that? None at all, in open daylight, on that peopled street. No witnesses. Only cowards.'

'Their mouths are quieted by the fear of the punishment,' Aragorn said, soothingly, 'We cannot judge. But one will find the courage to speak, just you wait and see.'

Legolas looked at him for a long moment, desperately wanting to be annoyed over the lecture, except he was finding the man was right.

"This morning's shooting has set my work back an impossible way," Legolas sighed, not wishing to think of the less practical aspects that the death of Bill Sanchez meant to him.

"Well it is lunch time," Aragorn said, "A few minutes more of delay won't matter then. Eat with me.

"You will have to eat sometime," Aragorn insisted as Legolas opened his mouth to protest, "It might as well be with me."

* * *

The distraction was clearing his head, some. Aragorn the healer had long since known to use his skills (some would say cunning!) in aiding people in all the ways that he felt they needed curing.

Aragorn found joy in that Legolas soon found it in himself to speak of his day's lighter events, such as that of the old bird who referred to the immortal archaic elf as well, archaic. Aragorn would not give the sympathy the elf was vainly hoping for.

"Well you really are ancient," said Aragorn, over lunch at the hospital cafeteria, "I don't know why you're so offended."

'Age doesn't count if you don't look it,' muttered the elf in his timeless native tongue, 'Would she had been so pleased if I told her she already smelled like the ground?'

'That is terrible of you,' Aragorn shook his head at Legolas in amusement. He raised his coffee cup to his mouth, eyes dancing as he looked at the elf. Silly problems were surely a relief to have.

The two friends fell to a comfortable silence, enjoying terrible coffee over each other's pleasant and much-missed company. The quiet was broken by some nervous giggles from a corner of the room behind Legolas' seat. Aragorn gave them a large, jovial, wave.

"They're laughing at us, you know," Legolas told him in a low voice, the expression on his face an inexplicable mixture of horror and mirth. The light in his eyes was one that Aragorn welcomed and wanted to indulge, especially after Legolas' sadness earlier in the day.

"They are not," said Aragorn indignantly, "Why the hell would they?"

"I heard them," Legolas replied, heroically restraining the laughter bubbling up in his chest, "I did. Elven ears, _mellon-nin_. They are laughing because they've always wondered how you, with your looks and your money and your charm and everything else, have managed to remain a bachelor all these years. And then here I appear once a week at least, and the answer becomes quite hideously apparent."

Aragorn's head tossed toward the laughing nurses' way. "They do not think—"

"Oh but they do," countered the elf, and his laughter was crisp and unabashed, shameless and playful. "Ah, my friend. I personally do not mind the reference. 'Tough guys wear pink,' they say. I take it to mean I can do whatever I want, I am fully secure in who I am. I suppose the glaring implication however, is that you must have been living the life of a eunuch, have you? At least, when it comes to women…"

Aragorn snorted at him. "Suppose I just do not find hitting on women in the workplace very appropriate. Or men too for that matter," he added dryly, "Just to make it clear."

"Fair of you to say," Legolas conceded, peering at the man closely, "Or perhaps... perhaps saving all your heart for another."

"I've come to the same conclusion of late," Aragorn admitted, eyes sinking down to his cup, mulling over the dark brown of his coffee. "It seems… by some unconscious effort, Adrian Aarons hasn't been wanting anything short of that one destined love. And I, as Aragorn, could not help but know this for a certainty-- that there is a vital piece of the puzzle missing."

"Arwen," Legolas breathed, reverently.

"Is she here?" said Aragorn softly, and the words sounded with the gravity of his longing, and they slipped from his tongue with so much ease, as if these were words he'd been saying, or perhaps dying to say for a long time.

"Is she looking for me also?" the _adan_ continued, "Would she know my face and my name if we ever saw each other? Is she even here? Should I bother to wait? What if she is already married, with children, a beautiful home with white fences, a potty-trained golden retriever who runs for the blasted newspapers every single thrice-darned morning—"

Legolas held up a hand to calm him. "I'd have held your hand but it would arouse more suspicion of your… preferences."

The statement courted the smile it intended.

"I remember," said the elf softly, and, Aragorn noted, with a considerable measure of hesitation, as if he was to share something very private and dark, "I had this conversation with Haldir quite some time ago. You need to hear it too, I suppose..."

Aragorn said nothing, let him move along his own steam, a style he knew they both preferred.

"When Gimli died...I had to flee," said Legolas, "Paradise died with him. And my grief was misplaced there. I had to leave and I came here looking for what I'm not entirely sure. Distraction, newness, fresh chances...? At least it held possibilities, for me. I left after you died, you see. And then I left after he died. Everyone will die around me, I've always known this. And yet the hurt is still deep, the desire to flee is still overpowering. One day, I should simply find a way to embrace this loneliness and go sit still and grow old somewhere."

Aragorn looked at him closely, curbing his worry over this revelation by softening the conversation with a joke. "Are you honestly expecting me to feel comforted after your advise that I should _embrace my loneliness_?!"

"Getting there, getting there," Legolas said, mock-irritably, "Live fast and die young, it always was with you. What impatience! I'm not telling you to embrace your loneliness. And I suppose I should correct myself too. It's not loneliness. It is aloneness, and these are two different things. I'm destined to be left alone by those that matter most to me. It doesn't necessarily have to be lonely."

Aragorn's brows furrowed, slightly confused.

"Embrace what life has in store for you," Legolas said, emphatically, "She may come, she may not. The rest of your life awaits, and it will not wait forever. For the longest time after my return here, I remember sitting alone in my room every night, speaking in Elvish. To myself. My plants. To the stars and the moon, to anything that I could imagine as having ears so deep in the night. To my relief none of them spoke back, otherwise by then I must have already lost my mind. I just... _spoke_. Fearing one day I'll find I've spoken it to no one for so long that I'd forget the words—forget who I was, where I've been, who I've known. And then years later, I find myself in your company, and the company of old friends.

"From the bottomless pits of isolation to having a family once more," the elf concluded, "Things will happen as they should. Not to suggest passive waiting, but more of an assurance, that one way or another, we'll be all right in the end. In short. Arwen may or may not come to you. But if you see an opportunity to love again, and it feels right, do not let it slip, eh?"

"Far be it for you to lay such charges at my door, master elf," retorted the _adan_, "I do not recall any woman in your life since time began."

The elf but smiled wistfully. Aragorn's curiosity spiked, for the look was calculatingly enigmatic. The elf glanced at his glimmering silver watch. "We really must sit down and have a chat about that one another time, old friend."

"You are being deliberately evasive," frowned Aragorn. But his raised brows and glittering eyes could not hide his surprise and interest, "We really must."

The elf just shrugged at him and patted his shoulder as he rose to his feet. It was a little bit disconcerting to be in a cafeteria in Los Angeles with the elf, thinking that lunch break was over, that the story, if Legolas should one day find the heart to tell it was going to be too long, and the both of them didn't want to be late and had to get back to work.

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

The burly, bull-like back of his unwilling future father-in-law cast a shadow over the terrace that looked over the expansive, manicured lands of Imladris. Marcelo Craxi stood slightly stooped, legs apart and arms away from his body, his hands gripping the balcony railing as he stared at the gloriously setting sun and the generous lands that belonged to the man who would be marrying his much-beloved daughter.

Marcelo could feel the new arrival staring at his back. His lips curved into a bit of a smile, enjoying the other's unease. It was Elladan, there was no doubting that. The other one, the twin, the one who had taken one look at him after their first meeting and called him _the Don_ would not have hesitated at all.

Their relationship was strained, to say the least. They shared only in their love for Anatalia, and agreed upon or had in common little else.

Marcelo Craxi was a gruff old man with a stout heart. He built his media empire from the ground up and thought it must have been like building a castle stone by stone, possibly _Pebble by pebble_. His face was weathered by a career journey that he often thought of as resembling a war.

And then there was Elladan.

The man with easy grace, easy money. Marcelo did not mind that the young man was good looking—he wanted beautiful grandchildren. He did not mind that the young man was wealthy—Ana deserved the best of everything in the world.

What he did mind was that Elladan was a mystery to him. He did not know where all the wealth came from, even with the best private investigators money could buy. He did not like it that Elladan was wealthier than him, that meant things were beyond his control. Too many secrets…

Marcelo did not mind it so much when Anatalia's first husband married her for her money. Rats were easy to spot, easy to buy. You knew right away what they wanted. By the time the Craxi lawyers were through with him, he barely had enough to live on. It was the mysterious ones that grated on Marcelo's nerves. He hated not knowing things. And Elladan was a black hole walking the Earth and about to wed his daughter.

Elladan finally walked up to join the old man. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," Marcelo admitted gruffly. "You grew up here?" he asked after a moment of uneasy silence that he forced himself to fill. The boy had made the first move, he might as well give it a shot too.

"I did," said Elladan, "My brother and I, a sister, our parents…"

"A hell of a place," muttered Marcelo, "You must have had an army to run it."

The younger man blinked at him, smiled a little at one of those in-jokes only he seemed to understand. Marcelo's eyes narrowed in irritation.

"Probably never had to lift a finger in your life," Marcelo snapped.

"You'd be surprised," said Elladan wryly.

"I would," Marcelo agreed, drawing out a cigar from his coat pocket. Narrowing his eyes in thought, he offered it to Elladan, as if in a test. The man politely declined with a shake of his head. Marcelo shrugged and lit it. He was annoyed that the boy hadn't taken the cigar because it meant the boy wasn't a smoker, which meant he still couldn't find some vice in Elladan's life to use as a point of profound irritation.

Elladan seemed to have read his eyes easily, and let his own frustrations be released. "You have the makings of an impossibly complicated man."

"Dare you say this of me?" Marcelo asked, indignant.

"I love your daughter," Elladan said, "And I can lay the world at her feet. My money is clean, my lands have always belonged to my family. I keep a quiet life. I do not smoke, or drink, or wench around. I curse only when the moments absolutely demand it. I am learned, and cultured. I think I can be a good father. I am certain I will be good to her. What more do you want? I dare say you have given her hand in marriage once, to someone far less deserving of her eyes and her hands and her laughter--"

"Who the hell are you, boy?" asked Marcelo, sharply, "I do not like mysteries, I prefer rats. Men like you do not just spring from the ground. There is a story, I know it."

"I tire of these arguments," Elladan said, frustrated. He stared out into the sun-drenched fields, "I honestly do not know what I'm supposed to do to ease your fears. Not that I would do as you ask, but out of curiosity. Do you wish for me to leave her?"

Marcelo frowned. Did he? It felt strangely extreme and unnecessary. And he most certainly could imagine Anatalia being profoundly unhappy.

"No," the burly Italian admitted, "I don't suppose I do."

"Then don't you find your... your... " Elladan struggled for the appropriate words, "your _negativity_ an unnecessary complication?"

"My negativity," scoffed Craxi, knowing the other man had a fairly hard time dulling stronger, more appropriate _descriptions_ of him.

"I will make her happy," Elladan told him fervently.

"If you didn't I'd break your face," Marcelo vowed, making Elladan raise a brow.

"If I didn't," Elladan said softly, "I just might let you."

The Italian almost smiled.

They fell to a companionable silence, watching the sun set.

"And where is your family to be amidst all this?" Marcelo asked.

"I doubt they can make it," Elladan said. The reply was hollow, lonely, and his sadness seemed to be echoed by the wind.

"Dead?" Marcelo asked. But he knew the answer quite well. According to his investigators, they were simply _nowhere_.

"Taken," Elladan hesitated, "Taken by the sea."

"Ever heard of that Menendez brothers case?" Marcelo asked him.

"They were most certainly not harmed by my brother and me," Elladan assured him, wryly, "I seldom think of them," he confessed, "the absence becomes more acute."

He seemed truly unhappy. And Marcelo couldn't understand it but the sadder the tone of Elladan, the heavier the winds seemed. He could not comprehend the feeling.

"Well," said the Italian gruffly, "At least they do not give you the trouble and headaches Giovanna and I give to our Ana. You see how she looks at us with consternation, now and then, wishing to elope."

"If my family were here," Elladan said with a smile, "I would welcome even twice the trouble and four times the headache. I wish it with all that I could wish."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

In another distant, fantastical reality, a young Polish-American "model-slash-actress" was walking down the length of a Hollywood street. With her fresh face and glittering eyes, she drew and captured carefully focused attention. Passers-by who were already theoretically supposed to be immune to the typically beautiful starlet making her way about town stood still and watched, and the crew shooting her photographs for Italian _Vogue_ cheered her on practically every move.

"Yes, _Arianne_," exclaimed the heavily-accented photographer, sounding so comically pleased, "_Yes_, you are perfect!"

She strolled down the sidewalk, the photographer trailing her. She raised her long, graceful hands, artlessly letting them run down the length of the wall of a shop. She glanced at the camera once in awhile. Closed her eyes other times. Pouted, scowled, and smiled, and laughed. A lot of it was a careful ruse, but the laugh was genuine, the sound of it was crisp and true. She took her work very seriously, but really, no one would be caught out on the streets in daylight wearing _haute couture_, and if one were able to act this silly and make as much money from doing so as she did, one would be laughing too.

Many of the passers-by who paused from their daily routines to watch her did not know who she was. They didn't know that the team had to film in the streets of America because when they tried it in Europe, the traffic had been frozen for hours before, her admirers having camped out and crowded the streets. Her beautiful, famous face had thereafter been officially declared a public nuisance. These jaded Americans didn't need to know this; they were simply arrested by her unabashed beauty.

One of the photographer's legions of assistants pressed a hand to his shoulder, whispering something in his ear. He let loose an expletive that had his assistant scurrying away, and he took a few more pictures of his most favorite subject before lowering the camera and looking at Arianne mournfully.

"Alas," he said, quite dramatically, "I can shoot photos of you all the rest of my life, _querida_, but there are other things to do."

She flashed him a grateful smile, and he couldn't resist himself; he lifted up his camera one more time and kept the look of it in posterity too. Stunned, flashes of light danced in her eyes for a moment, as she stepped toward him to kiss his cheeks in gratitude and farewell.

Disoriented, she completely missed a slight incline on the uneven ground. The incline was too much of an obstacle for her ridiculously high and ridiculously spiked designer heels. The stiletto caught, and she went down to the ground in a veritable pile of ivory limbs and yards of overpriced fabric.

The look on the photographer's face she'd remember for a good while yet. It was the look of absolute and total horror. His jaw fell, as if in slow motion. His eyes enlarged and he dropped his camera to the ground in a graceless shatter as he reached futilely for her.

Half-smiling and half-wincing, she looked up at her colleagues as they surrounded her. Her manager was going to have a heart attack. The photographer looked as if he ran over the _Venus de Milo_.

"I'm fine," she assured them with a breathless, embarrassed laugh.

"No," her manager insisted. No, no, she wasn't. Those legs were insured for a cool million dollars, damn it. Someone was going to check them inside out.

"We're going to the hospital," he declared.

To be continued...


	4. Another Day

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

3: Another Day

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya

Africa

* * *

Jimmy Goran pretended to be unimpressed with Agent Harding's grasp of the local language as the Interpol agent returned to his side after speaking to, and even joking with, the lodge's concierge.

"Well?" he pressed his partner, "What did the guy have to say about our mark?"

"He's been here once or twice last year," murmured Harding, "Not that hard to remember him, he makes no bother to be forgettable."

Goran nodded in agreement, thinking back to the Eurasian man with the shock of dyed hair, the man they've been following for the last few countries. It was his first assignment for Interpol. He wondered at the agents who had ever followed him before. When he was a professional hacker some months ago, he had the natural, felon's paranoia that he was being watched. He just didn't know if he'd ever been watched quite this closely.

"You ever follow me this closely?" Gimli asked his ex-elven companion.

"Of course," Haldir replied, imperviously.

"You'd think I'd notice," Gimli muttered.

"The ex-dwarf is getting rusty with age," murmured Haldir.

"Maybe you have a forgettable face," Gimli countered gamely. He just remembered that he was missing Legolas. He supposed elven pomp just naturally and automatically reminded him of his best friend.

Haldir ignored the comment, walked out of the lodge's indulgent, woodsy lobby toward where he parked their Land Rover.

"So that's it?" asked Gimli, "We can just leave now?"

"We leave after awhile so that our cover is not compromised," Haldir explained. "We trail him around a few days, then we let someone slide in discreetly in our place to avoid his detection. As much as I'd love for you to believe you are indeed getting rusty with age, master dwarf, the rotation is probably why you've never noticed any of us until we openly descended on you."

"You mean someone in there just replaced us?" Gimli asked, thinking back to the occupants of the lobby, not even thinking an Interpol agent was just in their midst. "So who was it?" asked Gimli, sliding into the passenger seat of the Land Rover.

Haldir just shrugged at him, "It isn't important. He's there, that's all you need to know right now. The mark will be in constant surveillance, rest assured. He has been for months. Our shift was just one amongst many."

"What did this guy do anyway?" Gimli asked as he put on his seat belt. Haldir, he discovered, wasn't very easy behind the wheel.

"Some murder charges," replied Haldir as the vehicle rocked and swayed over a rock he had missed noticing as he backed up the car, "But we're more interested in the money laundering."

"Your driving sucks," Goran commented, "And I know about the laundering. I know he's a North Korean hitman with big ties both East and West. Some idiot who couldn't tell one Asian culture from another simply called him YinYang, after the balance of dichotomies. A hotly determined killer with a frosty cool. No alliance, not even to his home country. A mercenary. I want to know why we're trailing him instead of just nabbing him right now."

"We have enough information to put him away just on the money and the murder," replied Harding, "But money for a mercenary is always for something, and we're letting the line run long to see from where he got it, and why."

"This job can get boring sometimes, huh?" commented Gimli, "I thought we'd be running around like James Bond."

"It is generally perceived that way," replied Haldir, although his professional pride was ruffled also. "Of course, you are also just starting out, training on the job. It is far more complex than your imagined James Bond fare. It is never a job that a single man can do."

"Yeah?" inquired Gimli, genuinely interested. He was loathe to mention it, but he had been counting on the heroic James Bond-thing. It's just embarrassing to admit. Gimli the Dwarf was a hero for the ages, he shouldn't have had any reason to want to be like anyone else. But he was a guy from the new millennium too; pop culture was an inescapable, whispering little demon.

"Think about it," replied Haldir, "James Bond must have liaised with Intelligence and Reconnaissance. That's what we're doing. The prize here is information, and if we have to pull back once in awhile to get it, then we go by that route, pass the baton along so we can all gather as much intel as we need. Once the Intel is put together, we—just as James Bond probably did-- have analysts and consultants who help figure out the puzzle, based on all our reports. We have a group to cut through the red tape, work through diplomatic sensitivities, what lines we can cross, etc.,etc. Then there are the local guys from participating states who specialize in local policies. We even have a group who controls the information that goes out to the public, everything from information for scriptwriters and book authors to damage control to the media for big cases, like that episode of ours in Turkey last year. If you must know we also have a department who handles our moneys.

"It runs like a country," Harding concluded with a shrug, "Or a bunch of countries, I don't know. Almost 200 member states, you know.

"However, I wouldn't worry at all about getting bored if I were you," said Haldir, "We're two of very many, but the world is huge and the work seems never ending. There'll be more than enough for all of us."

"The old wars were simpler," said Gimli, "The causes were distinct. Life versus death, it's easy to choose from, what you should defend. This one will bring death and end the world, this one will show light and life. But this time around, the good guys and the bad guys are ready to offer death by the boatload over... beliefs."

"We can only do things as we know them to be right," Haldir said, "And practice both discernment and openness to learning that we might be wrong. Do you doubt what you do?"

"No," the ex-dwarf said stoutly, "I just can't believe why our enemies don't."

Haldir chuckled, "Yes. A wonder we both share."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

"Late," the Captain muttered at Leland Greene when he dashed into the office of his boss for a quick debrief. Greene sighed as he bore the Captian's glare. It wasn't so long ago that he followed all the rules and was the boss' favorite little soldier.

"Mrs. Adams called me," the Captain said gruffly, "And requested that I send over non-chauvinists in the future since 'education is the process of molding the young leaders of tomorrow.'"

"I am—" he began to argue, before letting the defensiveness melt away from him. This was nothing to be peeved about. Besides, if he did too good a job in this one, he might get sent out again…!

"I was misunderstood," Leland said quietly, "But I understand how misleading my phrasing might have sounded. I will note the changes for next time, sir. However I do recommend a finer, more affable representative for the future. Someone more appropriate than me."

"Yeah?" asked the Captain.

"Rafe Montes, sir," Leland decided to say, stifling a self-satisfied smile over this little piece of mischief.

"He's about as diplomatic as a hungry barn cat," snapped the Captain, "But your suggestion is noted, Lieutenant."

The door to the Captain's office opened, and in came the man in question.

"Captain, he's late as well," Leland pointed out, in jest.

"I'm on time on my time," Montes pointed out, tapping at his watch.

"Which is the wrong time all the time," growled their boss, tossing a bunch of folders in their direction.

"In there you'll find data on a fugitive who managed to duck out of two life sentences by bribing some buddies to hijack his transfer bus. With him escaped three other criminals—a robbery and homicide, a car thief and a drunk driver with four charges of second degree murder. With their escape died two dedicated policemen and injured many others."

"What a mess," murmured Leland, shaking his head in dismay, "It was very bold of them too, an attempt like this."

"Yeah," agreed Montes, "The feds must be pissed."

"The FBI is indeed on it," said the Captain, "Data's from them. They want us to keep an eye out, though the bastards are probably not headed here. Crooks got the bus just outside of Massachusetts. We're a long way off, but you never know. Hand 'em out to the beat."

Leland nodded, flipping the series of pages to move to the other files. The work of the two detectives often comprised of crimes that were gang-related. Today's work represented no grave deviation from the usual day's duties: drug dealing, shooting, robbery…The last page, however, had him wincing.

"And of course there is the matter of Bill 'Rabid' Sanchez," said the Captain, "A situation I'm sure you are on top of."

"Of course, chief," Montes rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. Bill Sanchez was eighteen years old, intelligent, and desperately wanted _out_ of his situation such that he was willing to cooperate with the police.

"Is this a standard gang shooting?" the Captain asked, prompting Leland to pull his eyes away from the gruesome photographs of the crime scene, "Or was there a mark on him?"

Did he die incidentally in the middle of a gang-related activity, or was he executed for his cooperation with the police? The latter had very weighty implications; who'd have known he was a snitch? How will his killing affect the attitude of their other informants? Would they consider Rabid's murder a message for the rest of them to keep their mouths shut?

"It looks standard," replied Montes, "It was a drive-by. Another guy died with him. That one was a good soldier. No one would have laid a hand on him from within."

"His mother will know more," Leland said. He and Montes knew the unmarried Amelia Sanchez reasonably well. She only nearly killed the two detectives when she found out what they were letting her son do.

"Yeah," Montes replied, flinching. "But we haven't run into her yet."

"Does she know her son is dead?" the Chief asked.

"Not from either of us, but yeah," replied Rafe.

"Is that what tough guys like you do, now?"

"Well she scares the shit out of me," replied Montes sheepishly, before averting his eyes sadly, "I kind of liked her hungry little bastard. He was nice, inside. If she started crying... Well."

Leland chewed at the inside of his cheeks. "Montes was at the crime scene this morning, sir. I was at the hospital. We simply haven't had the chance to speak with her."

"All right," the Captain sighed, "Go talk to her. She may be able to tell us a few things that could help us."

* * *

She was actually very beautiful, albeit unfortunately and undeniably _scarred_. Amelia Sanchez was in her mid-thirties, though she had eyes that claimed the wisdom and weariness of a hundred years. Unmarried, with no relations whatsoever, she raised Bill "Rabid" Sanchez from when she had him as a teenager, getting by with her spunk and hard work. 

Amelia was unfortunately not a rarity in the country, but it made her no less admirable. The life she made for herself and her son was the best she could have possibly given, under the circumstances.

Leland Greene rapped at her apartment door smartly. His elven ears picked up her quiet, unobtrusive footsteps from the other side. She was looking at him through the door peeper. And she hesitated opening the door for a long, long time.

He held his ground, patiently. Centuries of living taught him to bide his time. He looked up at the door peeper, and fancied he was looking straight at her. Rafe Montes beside him impatiently rapped at the door again.

She opened the door, stared at them darkly with her glistening, tear-tired eyes. "I was wondering when you were going to find the guts to come here."

Rafe opened his hands to her earnestly, helplessly. "We have some questions."

"That's all you ever have," she said, though this day of her only child's death, her usual ire was softened. She opened the door wider, and let them step inside.

The house was painfully neat, a contrast to the rest of the shambles of an apartment building she called her home. Amelia Sanchez was Hispanic, second-generation in America. Framed photographs of friends and relatives in exotic locales peppered the room here and there. Her English was just mildly accented.

She sat them down at the small, round dining table in the tiny kitchen. Leland could smell cheap, strong coffee. She did not offer them any. She sat across from them, as far away as she could, such that if one traced an imaginary line between them, it would be the diameter of the table. She folded her hands over her lap, bit at her lips and stared at Rafe's face, and then at Leland's, as if unsure of what to do with them.

"You're not trying to claw my eyes out," said Rafe, his even, melodious voice filling the room, "I suppose it means you do not believe that your son's murder was in connection to his being an informant to us."

"I don't know," she admitted, "Another boy died with him. They wouldn't have done him in with Billy, that one was like their golden child. It was no execution of traitors. If it were, it would have been...worse. Slower. Much worse. I had the feeling they were up to something big. They wouldn't have given Bill something so big if they thought he was working with you."

"Big?" repeated Leland.

"Whole town's talking about it," she replied, running her hands over her dark brown hair. The curling waves were in a hopeless disarray of a world-weary ponytail.

"What have you heard?" asked Leland earnestly.

"All the gangs are clamoring to cut this deal," she said, "Bill's group was coming pretty damn close."

"Drugs?" Rafe pressed.

"Probably," answered Amelia, "I just hear snatches. But isn't it always?"

"How big could it be that they're all fighting for a piece?" asked Rafe. "Drug lines were pretty common, what made this one so special?"

"Like I said," she said, "I just hear snatches. Like all the mothers do. But then you know how it is down here. We hear it, but we don't. It puts food on the table." Her eyes watered, as if she was thinking that perhaps she could have done much, much more for her son.

"You did your best," Leland felt compelled to say, as he rose to his feet. "His mistakes were his own. He was on the right track, in the end. His redemption was his alone to make also."

"Thank you," she said softly, "I appreciate that. But dead is dead, and he is not here anymore, with me."

"We'll be in touch," Rafe said, "Thank you for your time, Amelia. Please let us know if you find out more. Or... or if there is anything else that we could do for you."

* * *

Kasensero, Uganda

Africa

* * *

Brad Greer was surprisingly adept at maneuvering inside the biohazard suits. Chandra Bouvier remarked as much, with quite a bit of surprise. The bright yellow field gear of the CDC was bulky, protecting the body from head to toe. It could get hot as hell in there, and often made one feel remarkably alone-- the sounds from the outside were filtered, and one was suddenly, very acutely aware of the sound of one's own breathing.

Boromir thought the yellow biohazard suits were a vast relief compared to the armor and equipment he once had to bear as a Gondorian soldier. He trudged along with at least as much dexterity as the veteran members of the team.

Kasensero was a poor fishing village living before the glorious Lake Victoria. Most of the country's land was beautiful and still relatively untamed, and unfortunately, it was untamed in most other ways too— militiamen and occasionally corrupt governments presented daily complications, though the curious Kasensero found itself oft-plagued by more unique and more painful problems.

Kasensero was one of the first places in the world to be devastated by AIDS. The population was thin, and thinning further. Brad's heard it said that the neighboring villages have been wiped clean, it must have been a strange tale of survival, that Kasensero still stood. Especially since violence and politics in the continent's centers of power were making it near to impossible for benefits to trickle down to the littlest cities and the littlest of peoples, such as the afflicted fishing village they were in.

"Guns and violence…As if they weren't having enough troubles," muttered Chandra in mild annoyance. As a long-resident of the continent, it was not a surprise at all, but cause for no less frustration.

"The people are hungry and sick," she continued, "and the men with the guns can still stand to fight. They hoard and ransom and sell your first-world donations at exorbitant prices…do they think they will live forever? Do they think hell will forget them?"

"Maybe," said Brad thoughtfully, "They cannot imagine life could get any worse. If they put down the guns, fell to desperate hunger themselves because other men certainly wouldn't put down theirs… well, it would be hell too. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. You might as well be fed during your time here."

"There is no excuse," Chandra said vehemently.

They walked on. The destination was a tiny hospital run by about twenty overworked nurse-nuns. A plain, weathered, bungalow stood in the near distance. Outside, lines of poor, helpless, ailing locals crowded the exterior of the building. They were quiet, and patiently waiting their turn. A young nurse was walking about them, bearing a heavy pot of water and allowing all who were thirsty to take a sip or two from a ladle.

Brad winced. It was a _very_ Christian thing to do, but it was ultimately quite unhealthy, all these sick people sharing the same ladle. It was altogether not a new mistake in the notorious health systems of any struggling country. The missions do the best that they can with what little they have, but it hasn't been unheard of that the deadliest diseases were passed on from one patient to the next simply because they went to the hospital and shared a drink, or a needle, or even just breathed the same air…

"I feel weird," Brad confessed to Chandra. He felt like an alien in the space suit, especially since the locals were very scantily clad and the nuns wore no protective material at all.

"Caution is always better," she said to him, "You don't want to regret catching VHF down the line just because you 'felt weird.'"

"I know," said Brad, "I was just saying. I feel like they're looking at me and I'm the paranoid, over-prepared American."

"I don't mind," said Chandra, "Ever seen a VHF case?"

"Photos only," answered Brad, "I was warned that the outbreak here sounds like a classic VHF."

"It's Viral because it's from a virus," explained Chandra, "it's Hemorrhagic because you bleed. It's a Fever because you are hot. But it is all these things together are amplified tenfold, you know. It's a virus that preys on us, replicating and eating until our bodies are walking cells of virus. We don't just bleed, we bleed from every orifice of the body—ears and eyes and every hole you can think of that we have—up until the heart stops. And then the fever of it practically cooks you inside out. In the worst types, a VHF has been known to wipe out a cool, cruel ninety percent of everyone who catches it.

"I detest this space suit, Mister Greer," she continued, "not because it makes me look strange. But because when I factor in the costs, I'm suddenly finding it may not be enough to protect me."

He frowned, and thought that she was a little bit exhausting to talk to.

"Why are you always so serious?" he asked.

"Because life is," she said simply.

"I kind of thought you'd say something like that," he grunted.

"So why did you ask?" she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation, although she did favor him with a rare, helpless smile. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

To be continued...


	5. Encounters

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

4: Encounters

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

They brought Arianne Underhill to the very best, and suddenly Adrian Aarons found the emergency room in complete chaos. Her veritable entourage was crowding the halls, yapping on their cell phones in a mad rush of some foreign language. The male orderlies, residents and nurses were pretending to look busy, though he noted all their sidelong glances were pointed in the same direction. In the thickness of the crowd, he was yet to see who the cause of the commotion was. He remembered that the last time such an occurrence happened, a famous Hollywood A-lister broke her arm at a shoot. Lesser but also notable incidents involved a popular porn star who had a _work-related accident_ that even had him baffled as he stared at her in her scantily-leather-clad body bruised everywhere the eye could see (and he could see practically everything).

"Oh thank god," a nurse breathed, upon seeing him saunter into the emergency room area. She took him by the arm and pushed her way past the crowds to a private room where the object of the madness was sitting in wait.

"Thank god you're here, Dr. Aarons," she said to him as she laid a hand to the door knob, "Here to restore order and show these young fools how we're supposed to act."

He took the chart she offered to him and read over the details. "Arianne Underhill, model-slash-actress," he murmured, "I never even heard of her."

"That's what I said!" exclaimed the nurse as she pushed the door forward. Adrian Aarons only looked up from the chart he was holding when the nurse shut the door behind him.

And then he lost his breath and balance as he stared at the shimmering eyes of the woman who once gave up her immortality to stand beside him in the few years that the fates allowed them to be together.

The chart fell to the ground in an embarrassingly loud clatter. His hands gripped at the nearby counter as he desperately sought balance, and stability. His breath was coming in short, his heart thundered in his ears. She was looking at him curiously, a tentative, uncertain smile on her face.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, leaning over his fallen things. The nurse who had let him in suddenly barged back into the room, hitting his backside with the door, making him stumble forward slightly, to his even more profound embarrassment.

"Are you all right, Doctor?" the nurse asked with wide eyes.

"Yes," he grunted, "I just dropped these."

She smiled at him, though her eyes were also mildly disappointed. She was beginning to suspect that Dr. Aarons, who was always looked to for careful control and integrity, was also stumbling all over himself in front of the admittedly beautiful woman.

Embarrassed, Adrian Aarons straightened and stood tall. His heart was still hammering in his chest, but he was still Elessar, and Elessar always had unparalleled grace and control…

_I do?!_, he suddenly doubted in a moment of complete and blinding panic.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she greeted him with a bright smile. He returned the look, and for the first time noticed that there was a man standing beside her on the examination table. The man had eyes narrowed at him in suspicion.

"I thought they said you were gay?" the man asked, irritably.

Adrian's eyes widened, and shot to Arianne Underhill's in profound alarm. He opened his mouth to defend himself, except the older fellow beat him to it.

"Doctor Aarons," said the man in heavily accented English. He had a long, age-lined and interestingly morose expression on his face. He offered his hand to Adrian. "We also heard you'd be the best."

Adrian shook his hand crisply, in a distinctly _masculine_ manner, blinking himself back to control and alertness. "You have the advantage of me. And I'm…" he struggled for the proper words to defend himself, ending with a fairly awkward, "And I'm not..."

"I am Robin Yarrow," the other man introduced himself, "the manager of Miss Underhill. You must see to her ankle."

"It's really not that bad," she said, embarrassed.

Aragorn looked at her flushed face. In afterthought, she did not look much like the Evenstar at all. The dark brown hair of Arwen was a stunning blue-black on Arianne Underhill. Adrian had no idea if it was natural, though her eyebrows and thick eyelashes shared the same shade. Her eyes were remarkably green. She had a pert nose, making her look more insolent than the calmly beautiful Evenstar. Indeed, if Arianne Underhill only remained still, Adrian wouldn't have thought she looked anything like his beautiful Arwen. But it was the light in her eyes, the determination, the clever, quiet humor. Her generous smile, her intelligent gaze.

"I understand," he cleared his throat as he read from the file, "that you are primarily concerned with the insurance of the…assets."

"And her well-being of course," Robin added, patting Arianne's shoulder, assuring.

"Of course," agreed Adrian, "You understand this entails documentation."

"Oh brilliant!" exclaimed Robin, "We have a photographer from _Vogue_."

Adrian noticed how Arianne's lips quirked slightly in ironic humor. He kept his face carefully composed. "That will not be necessary," he said, going to one of the cabinets and raising up a digital camera. He smiled at the enthused manager, "It generally requires no sense of art."

He squatted on the ground, felt her injury tenderly, before carefully removing her shoe. He felt as if his fingers were burning at the touch of her smooth, ivory skin.

_Here_, he thought hungrily_, You and I. After so long_.

It took all of his control to keep his touch from lingering. Such things could get a fellow sued up to his ears nowadays. He put her slipper on the floor and gazed up at her. He could not quite read her expression, and wondered if he was imagining seeing some mild regret in her eyes when their skin broke contact.

"Still all right?" he asked with a smile.

"Yes," she breathed, before clearing her throat, "Yes. Thank you."

He placed her heel on top of his knee as he took photographs of her ankle from miscellaneous directions. He thereafter laid down his camera and felt about her injury again.

"It's just a sprain," he declared, taking his hands away a second time. He looked at Robin Yarrow. "I can guarantee that personally. Although I'm sure, once again, for documentation's sake, and because Miss Underhill uses her ankles particularly for a living, you might want an x-ray."

He put her foot up to a stool, before rising to his feet. He grabbed a wheelchair and assisted her into it. Her scent was intoxicatedly familiar. Her arms on his shoulders, her hair on his face… She looked up at him, entranced, as he backed away from her.

Adrian Aarons called the nurse who had let him in the room to take Miss Underhill up to radiology. They wheeled her away without him, and as she vanished down the hall, he wondered if she was a dream. And then he wondered at himself, why he would let her move away when there was a chance he would never see her again.

He walked back into the empty room, to fix up a bit and gather his thoughts. She left her stiletto on the ground next to his camera. It looked small, delicate against the harshly dull gray of the floor, straps of spun gold strung out, its sharp, pointed heel a strange, impossible wonder.

_Why anyone would want to walk on these damned things…_ he shook his head in amazement, as he picked up both articles.

He put the camera back into the cabinet from which it came. The dainty slipper he put inside his roomy doctor's coat pocket.

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

"Have some respect for that bottle, Elrohir," the ageless Mithrandir admonished the eager elf, who had just taken a gulp straight from the bottle of the vintage wine. It took him about sixty seconds to pick a bottle from the vast collection, uncork it, and deposit a third of the contents into his stomach.

Elrohir clucked his tongue, disapproving. "I favor great love over great respect, old friend. I treat it roughly, only for its vital place in my heart."

"That is probably why you never got married," Mithrandir commented.

Elf and wizard sat side by side on the cool ground, surrounded by what was probably the world's finest collection of _vino_. Most of the wines were decades old, though some have even gone past a century. Elrohir advised the wizard not to value the older wines more than the younger ones earlier.

He had smirked and said, "After all, if they were any good, they'd have found their way into me a long, long time ago."

None of the wines were older than the pair having their merry way with them, though, nor the robes the two had donned out of some obscure impulse to relive a sense of the grand old days.

"I can't remember how I once moved in this thing," Elrohir commented, raising up an arm, the dust-stiffed, centuries old fabric making a strange, crackling sound. He and Gandalf, in a bid to escape the wedding planners, strayed to the expansive Imladris storage rooms and found attires from long ago. Jovially, they tried on miscellaneous pieces before drifting to the cellar they were presently in. And just as jovially trying out miscellaneous aged wines too, of course.

"On the contrary," breathed the wizard beside him, leaning against the wall, "I feel quite at home."

"Why isn't this a sight?" the smiling voice of his twin brother broke the conversation. Elladan's arrival, though mightily discreet, was by no means a surprise, with the supreme hearing capacities of an elf. But Elrohir's delighted smile was no less bright as he returned his brother's merry gaze.

"We went through the old stores," Elrohir explained.

"I can tell," Elladan commented wryly, squatting down before them. Coolly, urbanely, he ran a hand through his hair, and then took the proffered glass of wine the wizard was gaily lending him.

"We'd have invited you along," Elrohir said, as Elladan watched him over the rim of his glass, "But you've been busy with the in-laws. Not to mention, their seeing you walking around in these robes would be more negative points for you."

Elladan winced, giving the empty wine glass back to Gandalf, who abruptly refilled it. "And I thought there was no place to go but up, from where I stood with Marcelo."

"He's a tough bastard," Elrohir agreed.

"He's just a loving father," Gandalf said, soothingly.

"And I'm the big, bad wolf," Elladan said, wryly. He looked thoughtful for a moment, just before his eyes danced and glistened, as he came to a decision. He sank on his rump on the floor, apparently resolving to sit with them for awhile.

"And to think I used to be a good catch," Elladan reflected, "Mother said so."

Elrohir laughed, "She's your mother! She thought you could bring her down the sun and the stars."

"She has a modicum of honesty yet, dear brother," Elladan countered smartly, "For she rightly commented that you are a handsome rogue."

"She was half right," Elrohir winked.

"As to which half," Gandalf said, "That is another point of contention."

"I do not welcome any negative commentary upon my twin brother's looks from you, Mithrandir," Elladan said, "It is a face we both share after all."

Elrohir laughed, plucking the crusty gray wizard's hat from Mithrandir's head and planting it securely atop his twin's formerly immaculate head of hair.

"Would mother have liked her?" Elladan asked suddenly, wistfully. He let the stolen wizard's hat stay where it was, the shadows it cast on his face hiding a part of his lonely, thoughtful gaze.

"I believe she already does," Gandalf said, "I did tell you of your lady grandmother's magic mirrors and their windows to you. They were aware of Anatalia's coming into your life."

"It's a comforting thought," Elladan commented, though he looked no lighter of heart.

"It's been weighing heavily on you," Elrohir said, sympathetically, "As it should."

"I keep thinking how different it would all be if we were together," Elladan said, not bothering to conceal his feelings. "In all our years of living, I have a woman in my life at last who gives me unparalleled joy, who makes the future seem wide and great with possibilities again. And Mother and Father… Arwen… they are not here to… to even _know_ her."

"We knew this would happen long ago," Elrohir held, "When we decided to stay."

"I know," Elladan replied, taking in another proffered glass of wine, "I've accepted the consequences of our decision. But since this whole reincarnation debacle… I keep thinking, things could be different. There are… there are exceptions to the rule, there are… there are _holes_ in this woven fate into which things could… could _diverge _from our expectations and our resignations…" He looked expectantly at the wizard.

Gandalf looked back at him uncertainly. "Your hopes are dangerous, my young friend. You could wait a lifetime and end up with nothing at all. But we could not live without them, could we?"

"No," Elladan smiled, "We couldn't."

They fell to a companionable silence. The wizard was still contemplating the wine with profound appreciation. The elves with him drank with an almost human dedication for intoxication.

"1973," Elladan read the label of the bottle, "Good year."

"What were we doing in the 70's?" Elrohir asked, scratching his elven ear.

"What would you do if you lived again in the 70's?" Elladan scoffed, and his twin brother smiled in remembrance.

"I will not ask," Gandalf said determinedly, noting the blissful expression on Elrohir's ageless face.

A curious, quiet breeze suddenly found its way to the cellar, ruffling at their hair, skimming their skins, whispering in their ears, ever-so-gently cutting into their conversation, enslaving the words in their throats with its potent presence. It brought with it a scent, the kind that reminded one of one's childhood. It felt rightly placed, familiar and yet strange, as if it belonged to a different time.

It heralded the arrival of those who once thought they would never return, the return of the oldest beings of the earth with all their long-missed enchantments. The breeze was almost like the land had sighed in remembrance of these beings, expressed a kindred gladness for their homecoming.

"Hm," Gandlaf murmured, thoughtful, just as the elven Head of Household in Imladris, old ex-warrior Halvor, practically flew down the steps leading down to the wine cellar.

"The Lord and Lady have returned!"

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Legolas stared at his laptop, its dim light the only illumination in his darkened apartment. The pricey property was irreverently and uncharacteristically unkempt, sparse save for boxes of his few things strewn on the floor, packages of takeout and decimated cups of Starbucks on every reasonably free, flat surface. It was hardly an elvish kind of lifestyle, and yet since his return from Turkey some months past to find it has indeed been shaken down by the criminal masterminds who sought to kill him, he unfortunately hadn't found the time or inclination to worry about it.

His plants however, fought on, and had been his most immediate focus of rebuilding. The plants were revived into their original states, his minimalist glass fountain too. Electricity and plumbing followed. Everything else could stand to wait a little while longer.

Legolas did not have much need for sleep. It was his elvish constitution, alongside his distinctly human love of caffeine and shots of espresso. The sun was usually toward rising by the time he'd decide to force himself into some form of rest. And then two hours later, he was bathed and dressed and out those doors and back into the streets.

Some nights, he'd wonder at the occasionally faulty design of the gods. If it were up to him, he'd give the _edain_, who had less time in the world, less of a need or want for sleep that they may maximize life, instead of blessing the already-immortal elves with such a gift.

The focus of tonight's thoughts, however, was another matter altogether. He was recreating the last few days of Bill Sanchez's life, in the hope of solving the case of his brutal murder.

The crime scene photos were laid out on his table. Being in this line of work for the past decade did not make each macabre viewing any more bearable, or in this case, any less painful, if one knew the victims featured in them.

_Rabid was too young, too jittery, too _alive_, to be the body in these photographs,_ he thought fleetingly. Sanchez's fiery personality had been so integral to the most memorable aspects of his character, such that when he was killed, his body was suddenly looking like a common shell, with its indistinct features.

_You could have been any other kid left on the curb after a drive-by_, he thought bitterly, suddenly finding that the unfamiliarity of the face made the photos easier to look at, and yet also made the death seem more complete.

_There is no trace of you here at all_, Legolas thought, staring at the wide, empty eyes of the victim on the photographs.

He slammed a palm down over the photographs in frustration, before running his hands over his face, wearily. It was still astounding to him how humans could stand to do such vile things to each other.

_Never mind_, he thought with a sigh. It was a question that's been plaguing him for centuries. _What do you have that you could work with…_

Motive and opportunity were keys to solving the mystery. Whoever had the opportunity to kill the two kids was a little hard to come by, for lack of credible witnesses who can place any suspicious fellow in the scene of the crime. That left motive.

_If I find out why_, Legolas concluded, _I'll know who did this._

_He wasn't killed because he was a snitch_, Legolas thought, allowing himself a selfish measure of relief. _It's probably not my fault…_

Rabid's mother certainly supported that hypothesis. And he and Montes, they'd have known. Bill Sanchez was a jumpy kid, he'd have called, he'd have cursed the hell out of the two cops for putting him in that situation. Legolas was certain of that; betrayal had made Rabid paranoid, and he and Montes got calls all hours of the day about a week after they signed Rabid on, and he did exactly those things.

The conclusion allowed him to exclude all the members of Rabid's gang. They probably didn't know he was helping out the cops.

_Unless it was a more personal, less functional murder_, he thought_, not at all related to any gang or any collective purpose..._

Except the kid had no money, no prospects...no girlfriend, not enough charm or looks to steal anyone else's. He wasn't into the drugs he sometimes pushed and trafficked. No one ever let him borrow any money. Indeed, no one ever cared enough about him to be angry with him, except his loving mother, who certainly wouldn't have shot him just to get a point across.

_This leaves me two options_, he thought.

The first option was that the murder was a standard hit from a rival gang. They are seen unarmed and vulnerable. They are shot. Plain and simple.

The second option was that there had been a mark on them. Bill and his companion were up to something, something 'big' as Amelia said. And some other group wanted to close the deal instead.

These options left him with fewer suspects over, say, the entirety of Los Angeles which he started with earlier this night.

Only one gang would have bothered to shoot these kids on plain sight. Indeed, grandfathers and fathers and now sons belonging to the A-line and Samba gangs have fought against each other for jobs, for women, for turf, for quite awhile now. A full-on war hasn't been declared in a long time, and this could be the opening salvo.

Going by the second motive of wanting to break into the big deal that Rabid and his partner was closing for Samba, there were just two other groups of suspects. Only two gangs were large enough and powerful enough to risk the ire of killing two members of Samba. Once again, that was A-line, and another group, the indiscreetly named Hellfire.

Legolas picked up his trusty, silver pen. He bit at the tip, thoughtful.

_This is going to be tricky_, he deduced.

_What did they want with you, Bill..._?

_What were you up to?_

He sighed, leaning back on his chair. His mind was racing. He wasn't as confident with his contacts in A-line and Hellfire as he had been with the foolish but reforming Rabid Sanchez of Samba. His informants from the two other gangs had to be consistently coerced into information.

_You got priors_, Montes would say to them, _This last crap of yours can get you twenty years, you know what that means kid? That's the entire life you've lived so far, except without the damned sunlight._

_This is strike three, kid_, he'd say some other time, _This is a very serious infraction of your parole… That's a federal crime… I can have you put away for life right now… You can call up any bad-assed lawyer you want and they're going to tell you this thing is open and shut…"_

Bill Sanchez, Legolas thought with a grim smile, only had to be threatened once, before his conscience and his desire for change compelled him to continue serving them information.

Legolas picked up his cell phone and dialed Rafe Montes' number. It rang three times, before it was answered by his very sleepy wife Julianna.

"Leland?" she greeted, her voice drowsy and dull, and still exquisitely polite.

Leland winced and hung up before he could stop himself.

_I keep doing that_, he thought, embarrassed not only because he had forgotten that he was the only one keeping up the strange hours, but also because every time he ends up disturbing Julianna instead of her husband Rafe, his first instinct was to hang up the phone and cower.

His cell phone rang, and it was Rafe Montes.

Sighing, he rolled his eyes at himself and answered the phone.

"Greene," he muttered, knowing he just might get an earful…

"Can this wait?" Montes growled.

Leland loosened his collar a little bit. "Actually, yes."

"Then get some sleep, or let _my wife_ get some!" retorted Montes from the other line, before he hung up on his partner.

* * *

Kasensero, Uganda

Africa

* * *

They organized the infected hospital into an isolated ward for the verifiable VHF cases (fever, hemorrhage, _hard to miss_…), and set up another ward for those who reported symptoms that may lead to VHF. Completely unrelated cases were referred to another hospital. Everything was going according to standard procedures. So far, shooing away sick people had been the hardest part of the job here.

Turning away people who've walked for miles and miles, walked for hours, some for days, just to get a chance at decent healthcare… They didn't quite understand that they had to leave to avoid catching something lethal. All they knew was that they were already ill with something else, or that those they loved were ill.

"It's just procedure," he was told hours ago, "Some of them will die on the road to another hospital. But that's just how it is. There is nothing you can do but help out those you can. We don't know what we're dealing with here. Taking them in without regard for that is irresponsible."

_If I can prove this illness isn't airborne_, Brad decided, _We would not have to turn people away anymore…_

Another standard procedure was to gather samples and send them up to the States for a more thorough examination. Brad urged and cajoled his bosses to let him conduct an independent test here in the field. It was more crude, and would require verification from the formal studies overseas, but it can also be proof enough that they can accept other patients into the hospital. They agreed, but he had to do it in his own time.

And so there he was, once again stuck in a biohazard suit in the CDC's makeshift lab, a small tent just within the hospital compound. This time however, it was late into the night and he was alone with his lethal specimens and his microscope.

"Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, adjusting his microscope as he zoomed in for a decent shot of the organisms invading the bodies of these ailing people.

Before he could create a sharper focus on the sample, the blurred figures were unmistakably rod-like in appearance, and his blood turned cold, as if his instincts were already shaking him, telling him to get away from that place, the test was unnecessary, you already know what it is…

_Ebola_… he concluded, a chill going down his spine. He saw the shepherd's crook-like shape of the organism, with the menacing little ringlets capping one end of a curving, worm-like strand.

_But it shouldn't be a surprise_, he thought. The people exhibited classic symptoms.

_At least_, he thought, _Ebola in humans was never proven to be able to travel in the air_…

Indeed, some cases from the 70's had Ebola victims sharing drinks with people who turned out unharmed. Ebola victims have shared cabs, breathed the same air inside an airplane with other people, and still managed not to infect them. Traditionally, Ebola has been transferred by blood-on-blood contact of open sores and wounds or sharing needles, or through mucous membranes such as the eyes instead.

He zoomed in a bit more, sharpened the focus of the electron microscope. He's never seen an Ebola virus particle this fresh, this close before.

_Is that normal_? He suddenly asked himself, his mind racing over a curious sight. The rod-like shapes of the Ebola virus drew the eye right away, especially in confirmation of one's initial diagnosis based on the symptoms of the patients. A closer examination of the samples he had, though, was bringing up a curious oddity.

_Crystals_? He asked himself, zooming in. The electron microscope captured brittle-looking, curious shards at the outer edges of the sample.

Frowning, he picked up another sample, just to make certain that the piece he was examining wasn't contaminated. As in the first one he had checked, the second specimen showed the Ebola virus particle, before one found the tinier, crystal shards that peppered the sample. This was also the case of the third sample he checked, and the fourth, and the fifth.

He took a photo of the virus, and photos of the odd crystal shards for documentation. Upon his sixth and final sample, the situation suddenly became even more strange.

"What the hell…?" he murmured, finding the largest block of crystal yet. It looked like an oblong soccer ball, shimmering, translucent, a thin tail coming out of one end, as if something was breaking free of its shell.

And his blood turned cold again, and his heart pumped hard in his chest. He zoomed in closer.

_Shit_, he thought, his mind unable to process anything else for a long, breathless moment.

The Ebola viruses seemed shielded by the crystals, likely made of a synthetic material, probably protein, protecting it from the elements, allowing the deadly virus to travel safely through the air, until they made their way into a body, which breaks down the shell, releasing the hungry, lethal viruses hidden within.

_Synthetic_, his mind echoed his previous deductions_, Man-made_.

_A weapon_.

To be continued...


	6. The Situation

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

5: The Situation

* * *

The Estate of Imladris, 

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Halvor cleverly led the new arrivals to the smaller receiving hall, restraining his joy over his lord's return in favor of prudence. The Craxis were occupying the grander main hall, and he did not think young Master Elladan would appreciate a sudden encounter between Marcelo Craxi and the admittedly stranger Peredhils.

And led them he did, the Ladies Celebrian and Galadriel giving him a strange look, before he breathlessly excused himself and made a mad dash to look for his twin charges. The sooner he could find them, the sooner he could transfer the problem after all.

The twins wasted no time to wrest themselves from the temptations of the wine cellar, matching each other pace by pace as they ran through the house, as if they were running against time and fates toward the impossible and much-longed for reunion.

Mithrandir took a wiser pace behind them, lips curved in a slight smile, though his eyes were glistening wetly as one brother sought the open arms of his mother and the other found his father's smiling embrace. Halvor wept openly and far less discreetly.

'This is impossible,' Elldan said softly, in Elvish, bewildered and shaken as he sank his face into his father's robes, 'And I wished it so fervently… Gods you look the same…'

A smiling Lord Elrond pulled away from Elladan, smiling with dancing, glimmering, ages-wizened eyes. 'My son is getting married,' he said, simply, in explanation, as he yielded Elladan to his mother's urging, possessive call. Adroitly, Elrohir shifted a little to give his twin some mother-space. Celebrian locked her arms about her twins.

'So much bigger,' she said, muffled from their bear-hug, laughing gaily, indulgently.

'You are here,' breathed Elladan, pulling away from his mother to stare at her beautiful, ethereal face, 'You are here.'

'I am,' she said, an arm tightening around a still-speechless Elrohir, whose head was still buried on her shoulder.

'Returned only to find the noisier one has since had his tongue cut off, I see,' she teased Elrohir, shrugging at his face, willing him to tear away from her for a moment, that she may look upon his face.

He did as she wordlessly bid, head ducked low in wet, red, embarrassment. He took a deep breath, before looking up at her. More characteristically this time, he stuck out his tongue at his regal mother and assured her, eyes glinting in mischief, "No, it's still here."

* * *

The initial euphoria of the return of Lords and Ladies Elrond, Celebrian, Celeborn and Galadriel was forcibly repressed by Elladan as the situation suddenly began to come to a better light.

_Elrohir once said that, along the years, the edain have managed to invent a single word to encase the direness of situations such as yours: it's called shit._

"I prefer to call it _trouble_," he murmured to himself, giving his father a brilliant smile as he thought back to another dictum, about being careful about the things one wished for. "My lord…"

"I do despair when you begin requests with those words," Elrond sighed, "You need not fear. We firmly understand that things have changed, we may not quite be… with the times here. The young lady's family might find us a trifle odd."

"An understatement," laughed Elrohir, his eyes glinting once more in anticipation of the encounter to come, "Have you ever even seen a _car_?"

"If you mean the horrid metal pieces that bring you places," Elrond replied, wryly, "I cannot say as I regret it. However, do you have winged horses that can fly?"

Elrohir's eyes widened like saucers, the child in him excited, "You have horses with wings?!"

"No," replied Elrond, eyes shining over the ruse, "But we have engineered ways that allow them to travel at speeds that will take your breath away. My point is, my son, technological improvement is not linear. You can have '_cars_' and I could have engineered a winged horse."

"They're going to think we're weird, brother," Elrohir sighed.

"I believe embarrassment over one's parents is customary in occasions such as these," Galadriel said, softly smiling.

"I was never embarrassed by you," Celebrian pointed out.

"I'm not embarrassed!" Elladan cried, clearing his throat, "And I won't be." His eyes shot to his twin brother, "Will I?"

"What do we need to know?" Elrond asked, sighing as he sat upon one of the sofas. He was preparing himself for a lengthy conversation, "Halvor, the wine, if you please."

"Brandy," Elrohir kidded, calling after the scurrying majordomo, broadly hinting that his beloved _ada_ was going to need something _much_ stronger, "Scotch."

Elrond waved him down, as the entire group found seats in the spacious salon. "What do we need to know?"

Elrohir blinked, excitedly, "Oh right, we have to tell them everything, brother! Not just about the Craxis, but about everyone. _Everyone_'s here!"

"Everyone?" Galadriel murmured, though she looked unsurprised.

"_Everyone_," Elrohir grinned, as his brother broke into the considerable tale of how he met Anatalia Craxi, how she led him to Legolas, how mischief usually trailed after Legolas and their consequent adventures, and how they all ended up where they were.

* * *

Kasensero, Uganda 

Africa

* * *

He practically burst from the lab.

Brad Greer took more photos, then went through the decontamination showers, shed his suit and disposed of it. He ran for the clean lab, where the photos he had taken from the Level 4 laboratory were sent to a computer.

Urgently muttering "Come on, come on…," he was practically jumping up and down in anxiety as he waited for the printer to produce his photographs of the crystal-shielded Ebola.

He needed Chandra's thoughts. He needed to know he wasn't being a silly rookie before taking it up with his bosses. Grabbing the paper from the printer, he tore through to the crew's quarters, only to find Chandra's empty bed.

Breathless and frowning, he grabbed his coat instead and stepped out into the cool, African evening.

Should he wake up someone else, he contemplated, wishing fervently for a cigarette. Where the hell was she?

His sneakers made subtle noises on the dry, dusted ground. After isolating the VHF cases in the hospital, it was relatively safe to be walking around the hospital periphery without a biohazard suit and mask. The night breezes were giving him some comfort, cooling his blood a little.

_What did I just see_, he tried to comprehend, _What the hell was that?_

Taking deep, calming breaths, he was just about to return inside when he noticed some activity from the corner of his eye. He frowned at the shrubs and brushes that moved and shook, before stilling once again.

_An animal_? The city-dweller in him began to panic. If he wasn't going to die of Ebola, could he get mauled by a lion or an elephant or a hippo or one of those other safari animals they got briefed about on the plane? Was he going to be eaten right on the brink of sharing a momentous discovery--

The fair light of the moon, and his lengthy staring, suddenly gave him a hint of something that was truly there, staring back at him. The eye blinked, and he found himself jumping back.

"Can I help you?" he called out, as he caught his breath.

The bushes shifted again, and from it emerged Chandra Bouvier, jogging towards him, saying irritably, "Keep it down, Greer."

"What's going on here?" he asked her, as three locals stepped from the bushes in her wake. They looked annoyed, jittery, and were glaring at him fiercely, hands seeming to itch for the rifles he suddenly noticed they had on their belts.

"What the hell?" he asked her, the question drowned by the rapid-fire Swahili her companions unleashed at her. The language sounded severe, as if they were questioning her about something. She argued back, just as harshly.

"Doctor Bouvier?" Brad asked, his sense of danger tingling, his fists clenching as he fervently wished for a sword. He shoved his print-outs in his pockets to free his hands.

"Shut up Greer," she muttered at him, "Just shut up and go back inside."

"No," Brad said, "Look at them for god's sake, I'm not leaving you. What the hell do you think?"

"They're angry at you being here, not at me," Chandra hissed at him, as she spoke to the locals in a changed tone, pleading.

"I'm not leaving you," Brad said, with finality. She glared at him hotly, and he met her gaze evenly.

Chandra set her jaws and sighed. Said something in the local language again, that suddenly had the locals drawing out their guns.

"What the hell did you say?" Brad asked, eyes widening.

"You wanted to stick around," she pointed out, "So shut up and we do whatever they ask."

"Where are we going?" Brad asked, as he was pushed insistently toward the brush. He resisted mildly, but was otherwise cooperative. There was three of them, they had rifles, he had a more-or-less defenseless woman with him, who was already in the clutches of one gunman. He knew how to count the odds.

"They need our help," she said.

"They can just ask," Brad argued, "We can help more if we had everyone's support. We can have more doctors, more medicine--"

"They're keeping a secret," Chandra said, as they began walking away from camp, deeper into the thick of the shrubs and brushes, "Something that must not be discovered by the others."

"Hence the term 'secret,' I know," growled Brad, he did not like this at all, being tugged along in the night by armed men speaking a language he did not understand, "I need to tell you something."

"Do I look approachable?" she sighed, heavily, as she trailed after the gunman who had his fingers clasped tightly on her elbow, "These gentlemen came to me beginning with that same statement and look where we are."

"What did they need to say?" asked Brad, mildly irritated. She was complaining, and he was sure that what _he_ had to say was far more important, "Maybe they are just kidnapping us."

"No," she insisted, shaking her head, "I wish it were that simple."

One must have a harsh fate indeed if getting nabbed in a politically unstable country was simple. He listened more intently.

"I was taking patient histories," she explained, "I was beginning to form a picture of where all the dead and dying came from. If we could find the common link amongst them, we can find out what's causing people to become sick. We can get to the source.

"The story started out," she shared, "With a band of fishermen going home after long days aboard a vessel on Lake Victoria. They fish, they clean, they sell in neighboring shores and villages, they keep the worst ones to eat and earn a bit more money. They go back home. Like any other time. But then a few days later, they all just… fell ill suddenly, all of them almost all at the same time. And then got their girlfriends and wives and children sick after them."

"All the sick came from that one group of fishermen and whoever they got into contact with?" Brad asked, "No exception?"

"None," she confirmed, "And so we are left with the question of how the fishermen got Ebola. It must have come from them. They made land stops when they sold their fish, but no one else on any of their stops got sick. The Ebola seemed to have originated from them, or from that one place common to them: the lake."

"A virus from the water?" scoffed Brad, "Maybe one of the guys caught it from land, brought it aboard."

She shook her head, "As I said, no one from any of their land stops was sick. This thing came from _them_."

"But there's nothing in a fishing boat that would be a carrier for Ebola but humans," Brad pointed out, "Unless they had pets, like monkeys? How about rats? It couldn't have come from the fish…"

"Exactly," she breathed. She looked worried, but her wizened eyes were also gleaming with the scientist's unique, academic excitement, "That's why we're here. We're here to find out."

"Why keep it a secret though?" he asked.

"These fishermen weren't catching and selling fish, I think," she said, not caring if her theories were being heard by their captors, knowing she would not be understood.

"I was told," continued Chandra, "I heard that... well, I've heard of smugglers in the area. Lake Victoria is a huge body of water, peppered with little, uncharted islands that can hide good loot, hide great criminals. I'm thinking these guys probably smuggled infected cargo..."

"You mean we could be dealing with the illegal animals trade here," Brad guessed, "Exotic pets, lab monkeys can fetch a pretty sum. They smuggled the animals, only to catch Ebola from them. Animals that someone could be selling to a dealer abroad right now."

Chandra winced, nodded uncertainly. "Anyway, they noticed I was asking too many questions, must have decided I'd get to the bottom of things anyway, and they needed discreet, unofficial medical attention for their sick colleagues, hiding out in fear of getting arrested. So they sought me out. They needed a doctor, and I needed to know where this thing came from. So I was cutting a deal to go with them and be escorted back, until you showed up."

"Shit," Brad muttered, "Shit."

"What?" she asked.

"Apart from voicing out my sentiments on our current situation," Brad said dryly, "I was seeking you out in the night for as pretty damn good reason too."

"What would that be?" she asked.

"It's going to toss the smuggled animal industry theory out the window," he guaranteed her, "Your virus couldn't have come from an animal because it's not naturally occurring. I think. I mean, I checked out samples in the lab. Tell this guy to let go my arm, I need to show you something. I won't run away."

Chandra did as he requested, and Brad was released upon her cajoling, and his earnest nodding, hoping to convey his innocence.

"See this?" he asked as he handed her the now-crumpled piece of paper he had hidden in his pants pocket. She squinted to get a better look at it, stopping for a moment when she caught the fair glint of the moon. Their captors cursed and rapped at her in disapproval for delaying, but she made some excuse that had them waiting for her until she was ready to move again.

"I told them it's a photo of the disease," she murmured in explanation, "That it could help their comrades if I got a better look. So it is Ebola. What else am I looking at?"

"The less obvious," Brad replied, "Quick looking at the rods, we all know what they are. Look here." He pointed at the crystal with the 'tail,' the sample where he caught an Ebola virus particle just emerging from its shell.

She blinked, pressed the paper closer to her face.

"I'm thinking the crystal is a shell," he said, "This makes the virus hardier out in the environment, and would allow it to survive without a living host for a while. And then it goes into the body, which absorbs the shell, and the damn virus particles break out of them, and invade the body."

"It's probably why the incubation period is slightly longer for this strain than the standard Ebola infection," she murmured thoughtfully, "Even if the disease is exactly the same in symptoms, in DNA. It's shelled, and needs more time for release."

"It's weaponized," Brad said, gravely.

"What's in the lake?" she asked the men, gripping one by the arms. She checked her language and made the shift to Swahili, asking the same thing, over and over.

One of the men gave her a sharp, quick answer, before grabbing her arm and pushing her forward once again. The answer was enough to apparently stun her into a bewildered silence for a moment.

"What?" Brad asked, "What did they get their hands on?"

"Drugs," she breathed, "These damn fools thought they got drugs."

Images of fine white powder in hundreds of bags, danced in Brad's vision. White powder that, once released into the air, danced and drifted _everywhere_, as elusive as tendrils of quietly and indulgently menacing smoke.

* * *

Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

"Good morning Greene," Montes sneered at his partner, hunched over his paper-littered desk. As per usual, he snatched a cup of Starbucks that Leland had left especially for him.

Rafe grimaced. There was something different about the coffee.

"I shifted to soy milk," Leland explained, "I just might save your life."

"This is no way to live," Montes said, though he kept on drinking, "At least I hope it's not decaffeinated. You woke Julianna up. Again."

"I'm sorry I keep disrupting," Leland said, "I truly am. I just… forget sometimes, I suppose."

"Forget what?" yawned Rafe, "Forget that you're an inhuman workaholic? Or forget you're a thoughtless ass? At least you disrupted sleep instead of disrupting—"

"I don't want to hear it," Leland cut him off.

"You're a prude," laughed Montes, "How do you know I wasn't going to say 'disrupting Jeopardy?' Or 'disrupting Lost?' or-- "

"Or disrupting your prayers?" Greene said, wryly, "Because I _know_ you."

"So what was it that you thought couldn't wait?" Montes asked.

"I have a theory," Leland said.

"Don't you always," sighed Montes, "Shoot me."

"Sanchez is dead," Leland said, "but his murder was unrelated to being an informant for us. Amelia concurs, she said the young man who died with Bill was regarded as a 'good soldier,' Samba would not have executed him."

"All right," breathed Montes, "So it's another gang. But there's no war, at least not yet. How about personal reasons?"

"Bill has nothing anyone else could want," Leland pointed out, "No enemies on the inside, none in the neighborhood… nothing."

"Another gang then," deduced Montes, "But there hasn't been a war for awhile. The Big Three are all just skirting around each other. No one's going to just up and shoot someone during a truce. And none of the smaller players would have dared to anger the Samba gang by killing two of its guys."

"Unless the truce is over, the gloves are off," said Greene, "Amelia Sanchez said something 'big' was to happen. A deal that everyone wanted to close. She thinks its drugs."

"It's always drugs," frowned Montes, dreading the idea of having an impending drug war in his hands. The last one from a few years ago got the damn streets bleeding.

"And there's always drugs, somewhere," Leland pointed out, "Somewhere someone else can get to it. That means this one in particular, if everyone wants it, could be particularly… fetching."

"As in, so big it could make the next Godfather kind of big," agreed Montes, taking a deep breath, "We're going to feel the Earth shake when the power shifts. All right. We grab us a street rat with a long rap sheet and a big mouth, and then we take it to the Captain."

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya

Africa

* * *

"We need to move," came the soft insistent voice, the same moment the touch of the night breeze skidded over his bare arms, as the blanket that covered him was ruthlessly tugged away.

"What? What?" he asked, his warrior's years catching up with him, any sense of urgency suddenly making him shoot up from bed and look about him anxiously.

"The mark is moving," Harding replied, as Goran struggled to his feet and gathered his clothes. The more seasoned Interpol agent was already decent and hastily packed his effects, including miscellaneous gadgetry that Jimmy would have once given a hand and a foot for back when he was a criminal hacker.

"Which mark?" Jimmy grunted, pulling on pants over his boxers, "The Asian guy? Or that blond chick who killed her husband?"

"I was just testing you on the blonde," Harding grinned at him, "I thought you looked bored waiting for our next activity."

Jimmy frowned at him, "Is that what you get paid to do? Keep me amused?"

"But you did very well, I thought," Harding assured him.

"Where the hell is this guy going?" Jimmy groaned, "He keeps moving around. Maybe they are just trying to jerk us off."

"He's looking for a ship," Harding replied, "He just keeps looking for an old carrier christened the _Rosa Rasa_. I was just informed by I&R that he went through two ports asking after it."

"Yeah?" grunted Goran, "So we're trailing this guy looking for this ship? I hate going around in circles. I say we ought to just beat him to it."

"What makes you think you could do that?" Harding asked.

"He'll find his way there eventually," Jimmy shrugged, "But it will save us so much effort switching around and watching him if we got there first. We might not even need to wait for him to get there, we just need to know what's inside. You did say we got enough rap on this guy to lock him up."

"It won't be easy," Harding said, "We're hypothesizing that he's from a sophisticated criminal ring. If they can't find it…"

"Oh come now," waved Jimmy, "Do I hear doubt, 007? Let someone else trail after him, and let's you and I look for that ship. If it yields nothing, then we go back to voyeur duty."

"What makes you think you can do something about searching for that ship that they, or our analysts haven't done?" Harding asked, crossing his arms over his chest, not quite skeptical, just genuinely intrigued.

"Anyone taken a history of the ship?" Goran asked, "It's make, specs, it's captain, it's owners, ba-blah-blah?"

"Of course," replied Harding, "These are basic. Give me some credit."

"Anyone checked the logs of all the official ports?" Goran pressed.

"We have the _Rosa Rasa_'s departure point and time," replied Harding, "No arrival."

"Still out at sea or lost at sea," Goran concluded, asking quickly, "Coast guard reports? Informal sightings from non-registered ports?"

"No sightings," replied Harding, rolling back his eyes, "You have to give me more than this…"

"Lost at sea it could be then," Goran murmured, rubbing his thick chin, accepting the challenge wholly, "Distress calls?"

"None," replied Harding, "And we expect none. The assumption is that the cargo is non-legit. They'd have risked death over capture."

"Anyone checked out the weather reports?" asked Goran, to which Harding raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"If you have a departure point," explained Goran, "Get the standard traveling rate of that ship's make, assume a lost at sea scenario, say, due to a storm, get the wind rate and direction, bump it off against the ship's weight, put it all together and you have a search radius."

Harding's eyes lit in appreciation, "Indeed."

"If you assume another lost at sea scenario," Goran added, his chest burning with professional pride, "what else usually happens around these coasts?"

"Hijacking and piracy," replied Harding.

"Two seafarers marked by distinct territorial boundaries," Goran replied, "We go by the last reported sighting of the _Rasa_, and investigate the military or pirate group who owns the area."

"This is already being done," Harding replied, "So far there is nothing."

"Hm," Gimli murmured, thoughtfully, "We can probably rely upon the weather theory then. At least, initially. Now if there was _both_ a storm and a pirate hold-up, _that_ would be a challenge. We'd have to follow where the weather took the ship, then investigate the pirates or militiamen who own the area."

Harding shook his head at the ex-dwarf in amazement.

"So I get to sleep in?" Goran prompted him, stretching his arms over his head, "We get to stay in this hotel room a little longer instead of running around?"

"We get to stay," Harding replied with a grin, drawing out his cell phone to make a few calls, and putting a laptop over Goran's bed, "But no sleeping in just yet. You're to find us that ship."

To be continued...


	7. Repetition

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

6: Repetition

* * *

The World Wide Web: 

Correspondence from Fellowship yahoogroups . com

* * *

Subject: Where's everyone?

Mark Brandy wrote:

Hullo! Just wondering where everyone is. Pip keeps replying to my e-mails and we see each other everyday in university, thanks!

" " "

Subject:Re: Where's everyone?

The Took wrote:

Oi! I can see you from across the café!

--Pip

" " "

Subject:Re:Re: Where's everyone?

Mark Brandy wrote:

Pip, you must know that what you've done is singularly annoying. We are wishing to hear from others, not just… each other.

" " "

Subject:Re:Re:Re: Where's everyone?

Leland Greene wrote:

Hello my friends,

Sincerest apologies for having been remiss in my correspondence. It is by no means an indication that I miss you less. It is just all this work, it never seems to end.

We may be on the brink of a gang war here in Los Angeles. Two murders earlier this month have climbed to eight, though others may have gone unreported. We're desperately trying to find out why they are killing each other that we may prevent further violence. We've stopped short of torturing and bribing our contacts, though, I think on most wistfully and blackly, these are options that are rapidly becoming more tempting, ha.

Fervently hoping you are all you folk are faring much better than me. Is your university still standing? Has it been set aflame? Are all of Peregrin's fingers still complete?

Counting on favorable responses,

Legolas

" " "

Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Where's everyone?

Finn Baggins wrote:

Hello Legolas!

Most pleased to report the antics of Pippin still leaves the university intact, and I personally counted his fingers yesterday. All his mischief is still finding us all quite alive and well. We're all pleasantly surprised.

A gang war, is it? That's unfortunate. We're studying alternate histories at present. There is little doubt that 'gangs' have helped form modern, urban civilizations, and most certainly they help a lot of people cope through the difficulties of life at present. Still... the deaths seem all too final and unnecessary. We are wishing you the best, as always.

-- Finn

" " "

Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Where's everyone?

ElrohirSeriouslyRocks wrote:

Where _is_ everyone? I've been calling and calling and I keep getting machines!

Legolas you must come to Imladris at once. Or as soon as your problems clear up. Or at your discretion. Never mind. I'm too excited, I've been dying to scream from mountaintops.

Mother and father are home! And grandmother and grandfather. They bring glad tidings of your family from beyond the circles of the world. This you must see for yourself, that I may be assured Elladan and I are not dreaming.

Besides, we can most certainly use a distraction. The Craxis have been living in the house in preparation for the wedding, and Elladan is close to buckling with the strain. Dinners are becoming unbearable, with Marcelo constantly trying to bait Elladan, and my father being profoundly annoyed that Elladan must bear such an assault in his own house. Mithrandir is no help at all. He watches with this wizard's glint in his eye, as if everything was so entertaining. Now the women are getting on well enough, but if I have to sit through another conversation about baby names, I'd run around the grounds of Rivendell in my birthday suit (I think that's unprecedented, but I loosely remember back in '79, there was an incident about Elladan and magic mushrooms and wrong labels, and just general post-dinner confusion at the house but I digress...).

Oh poor child! Oh my poor niece or nephew. She might be doomed with being called Arwen Saturnina Craxi-Peredhil or, if it were a boy, nevertheless be doomed with Elros Artorius. While the names of my sister, Anatalia's grandmother, my uncle and Anatalia's grandfather are beautiful _away_ from each other, they are quite outdated and lengthy. I'd personally be pleased with a simple, straightforward Bob, otherwise Elladan and Anatalia would have to sire some spelling bee champions.

That is, _when_ they actually decide to have children. Which Elladan is still understandably fearful about, if the child is to have some Elven blood. We have a hard time fitting in as it is, I can't quite imagine what kind of a nightmare _High School_! is going to be.

Ana is also a bit hesitant to be a half-elf's mother, and my assurances that elves don't pop into the world like the extraterrestrials in _Aliens_ hasn't yet yielded the desired result. Her eyes kind of widened before completely dismissing me in mild irritation.

This probably means we should skip on this naming problem for now, and instead focus on keeping Marcelo from killing Elladan and _ada_ from killing Marcelo first.

Please come soon. My lords and ladies are eager to see you. And you've always thought of pretty names for yourself over the centuries, perhaps you can end the debates at last.

-- Elrohir

* * *

Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

Elrohir's news was met with a wild flurry of replies, that Legolas, at first, tried to read. Responses ranged from Gimli's embarrassingly transparent, 2-worded reply: "Lady Galadriel?!" to felicitous remarks from former subject Haldir, greetings from the ever-appropriate Finn Baggins, and excited comments from the ever-inappropriate Pippin Took.

Remarks, replies, more replies, more remarks... until he felt as if he would explode with his own enthusiasm. He stopped after reading five more e-mails, before snatching his cell phone and dialing for Elrohir.

"Is it true?" was the first thing that burst forth from his mouth, as soon as Elrohir answered his call.

"It most certainly is!" replied Elrohir, jovially, "At last I get hold of you. Yours was the last response to come, about three days later than everyone else's. Yes, indeed, it is true. Although I don't agree with Aragorn."

Legolas pinched the bridge of his nose, "It is difficult to explain, I've been so busy. How are my lords and ladies?"

"Expecting to see and hear from you soon," replied Elrohior, pointedly.

"I can't yet," Legolas sighed, "Most unfortunately. What were you saying about Aragorn?"

"Exactly what I said," replied Elrohir, "I don't agree with his assessment, though naturally, it's expected that both my mother and father are headed there to find out for themselves. At the very least, they want to see the crazy lovesick _adan_ even if he's wrong about the lady."

"What?" Legolas asked, confused, "Aragorn, lady -- what?"

Elrohir sighed, "You called me before you read everything."

"I was much enthused by the news," Legolas answered, turning back to the screen of his laptop and scrolling down the multitude of replies, before accessing Aragorn's.

"We haven't seen each other in over a week," Legolas murmured as he read through Aragorn's e-mail, "_Just _a week. I can't imagine what he could get himself into in such a short span of time…"

_Ada_, Aragorn had written, the very first word, the very first thought. His bond with Elrond had been a strong one, strained but unbroken by his having been loved by Elrond's daughter.

"He thinks the Evenstar has returned," Elrohir said, quietly, "He thinks they've met. He wants to know what we think he should do."

"That is an insane question," Legolas pointed out as his eyes rapidly scanned the screen, "The ages have brought them here, they belong to each other."

_The only certainty about this reincarnation is a second chance at life_, Aragorn wrote, _The fates are not cast in stone. Repetition is not mandatory. Boromir lives, as does Theoden. Wormtongue could have fashioned himself a better life. Sam, Merry, Eomer have not even regained their old memories. Repetition is not mandatory... Maybe she no longer belongs to me, this time. The last time she was mine, she had died for her love. Perhaps you'd wish to bring her with you, now... things might be different._

"I've seen her," breathed Elrohir, "He must be losing his mind, they look nothing alike."

"He's waited for her for ever," said Legolas, "If he believes she is who she is, he must not let her get away. Wait one moment. Where did you see her? Were you here some time ago that I had missed?"

"She's all over the magazines and the telly in Europe, _mellon-in_," Elrohir laughed, "A model-slash-actress. Of all things."

Legolas frowned, skeptical, "You don't say."

"Give Aragorn a call," Elrohir adviced, "He sounds genuinely confused."

"And your family is to come here soon?" asked Legolas.

"Well us idle rich certainly have more time than you," Elrohir laughed.

Legolas smiled, a bit. Worry for Aragorn was making his forehead crease, on top of all the work that demanded his attention.

"Send your family my love and best wishes," Legolas said, "I will keep Estel sane until your visit."

"Oh he'll drive _you_ insane," Elrohir pointed out, "At least, by then, I'm sure you'll find it much easier to deal with each other. So. We're coming by, right? And I see no reason why I should be shy about asking if we can stay with you."

Legolas looked about his still-messed-up apartment, "I think you idle rich should bother with a hotel, this time. You can certainly afford it. My home is looking much... neglected."

"Your pricey bachelor digs?" Elrohir asked, surprised.

"I haven't had the chance to have it restored since it was broken into," Legolas replied, sheepishly, "And then the messier it is, the less you feel the impact of any other 'little' bit of trash you should toss here or there... I got careless."

"Your recklessness is a welcome surprise," Elrohir said wryly, "Are you certain it's unbearable? I'm not quite open to subjecting our family to a public place such as a hotel just yet."

"I think I may be able to find you a space in my building," Legolas thought, "Just not my messy corner of the world."

"Great!" Elrohir exclaimed, "We'll be by in a couple of days."

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya

Africa

* * *

Jimmy Goran was actually much more of a workaholic than he allowed himself to believe. Harding awoke from a much-needed sleep to find his eyes settled upon the back of the intently-focused computer genius, who looked as if he hadn't moved since he settled on the old desk in front of his trusty laptop.

The sun was up, streaks of light peeking from the shuttered windows of their woodsy hotel room. The lights were set dim and low, and the morning's cool was just beginning to heat up to the start of midday.

Goran was humming a song Harding couldn't quite recall. It was probably the semi-off-key-ness. Crumbs of room service fare was on the floor, on the bed, on the hacker's clothes. Harding regarded the ex-dwarf's jolly disposition as a good sign.

'Finding success?' Harding murmured, in the Elvish he occasionally employed in conversations with the ex-dwarf.

'Naturally,' Goran grinned at him, matching the language shift adroitly.

"Updates?" Harding asked, as he stretched his arms over his head. His eye caught a half-eaten bagel on a plate next to Goran's elbow, and contemplated it for a long moment.

"It's clean," Goran assured him, indignant, "And if you give me a few more minutes, I might let you have it."

"I'll wait 'til you're ready," Harding agreed, coolly, as only one accustomed to the nature of their job could. He rose to his feet and snatched the bread, downing it in two big bites. He headed for the mirror. The ice blond hair was getting a bit too long, giving his look both the unabashed glory of Haldir of Lothlorien and the practicality of Horace Harding. He liked it this way, barely reaching up to his shoulders.

"I think I know where your ship might be," Jimmy declared, waving him over. "The last sighting of the _Rosa Rasa_ was indeed just before a storm."

Harding looked over at the laptop, noting a map of Africa and the Indian Ocean, a blip identifying the _Rosa Rasa_ on-screen, dates and weather data on a corner.

"Two days later, no trace at all," Goran said, showing the same area with a different date. "Not here, and not in the entire area the _Rosa Rasa_ could have gone at maximum speed from the spot it was last sighted."

He zoomed out the photo. The spot where the _Rosa Rasa_ was last sighted was marked with a red dot. A wide red circle surrounded it, representing the farthest points the _Rosa Rasa_ could have traveled away from where it was last seen.

"The ship will be within that circle," Harding said.

"Where the major event within the two days in question," said Goran with a grin, "Was a hurricane."

Goran pressed a few keys on his computer, and the red blip representing the _Rosa Rasa_ started to move underneath a cloud simulating wind and sea movement. Goran let the simulation run according to the conditions of that one missing day, and the red blip stopped in a very precise location.

"That's where we'll find the _Rasa_," Goran declared, boldly and proudly. Before frowning in displeasure. "Hm. That could be tricky."

"The Horohoro," agreed Harding with a murmur.

"It will take you all your charm and a good deal of Interpol's money to get out of that one unscathed," Goran sighed.

The Horohoro was a 75 km stretch from Tanga, Tanzania to the Kenyan border. It was notorious for pirate attacks, because the government had no navy to defend the waters. The fact that it was also on the border of two countries necessitated a significant lead time to coordinate lines of responsibility between the two governments, the slow paper trail giving the pirates all the time they need to escape.

Most sea vessels don't even _slow down_ in the area, much less stop to linger and look for something, as they were about to do. Interpol was well-resourced, but it wasn't a bloody army that can take on band after band of professional pirates. Interpol relied on the resources of its member governments, and there was no government out in the Horohoro.

"There are forces that can be mobilized," said Harding, "Some U.S. subs out at sea near Asia. The French hold a port base up north. It's going to take a few days, and I don't think I'm going to get the clearance. I wouldn't be able to sell the idea. The laundered money is less than what it would cost to bring people in there. I think I have a better plan."

"What would that be?" Goran asked, slightly nervously, "The last time you had that look in your eye, you recruited me. What are you thinking?"

"We hire the _pirates_ to look for the _Rasa_ in that area," Harding declared, "Cheaper, safer, and more effective as we'll be drawing on local expertise. As they say," Harding smiled, "Better a wolf in the fold than loose. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer."

"_That_'s what you were thinking when you hired me?!"

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria

Africa

* * *

"You understand," Brad breathed, next to Chandra's ear as their boat slowed to dock in the tiny, unknown and unmapped island, "We're going in here to face a Level 4 Viral Hemorrhagic Fever without protective gear of any kind."

"It's not airborne," she said, "At least... it's never been undoubtedly proven that Ebola was airborne. Many people have lived to tell about coming face to face with dying patients without falling ill themselves. You need fluid contact."

"What was it we were talking about days ago?" Brad asked, wryly and nervously, "That we're not afraid of looking silly if meant surviving to feel the ridicule?"

"I don't think I phrased it quite that way," she said with a tiny smile, "Just be careful. Do you have open wounds, sores, cuts in your hands? Check carefully. Keep your mouth shut when treating patients. Make sure none of their fluids reach your eyes or nose. Do not let it make contact with your blood or mucous membranes."

He sighed, looking behind him as the moon shown over the great lake. They left Kasensero on a boat toward what Chandra told him was a place the smugglers nicknamed the Kwisha Isle.

"_Kwisha_," she had said, "It means 'finished.' How depressing."

They hopped from the boat, prodded by their captors. The isle was wet and untamed, vegetation grew freely and wildly, save for a cleared, narrow path hidden behind a pair of thick, leafy trees.

The darkness of the night was complete beneath the shadows of the trees. The water lapped ashore in the banks they left behind them, making subtle noises in the evening. Their footsteps made soft sounds on the soil and rocks.

_It's so quiet_-- he was just thinking, before the first of the wails reached his ears.

The sound was dull, distant. He thought it was perhaps an animal. Or a dream. And then he heard it again, a wail. Trailed by a moan. A groan, a restless, pained cry.

Still, all there was was the dark and the path and the trees with the leaves that brushed at his face. The sound of the shore was becoming more distant, as the sightless sound of the agonized became louder, and louder...

He wanted to stop. He wanted to run away. And yet, as if reading his mind or perhaps sharing his thoughts, the jittery barrel of a rifle settled upon the small of his back, urging him forward.

Their lead captor stopped before a curtain of vines and leaves and branches. The sounds were much, louder now, guaranteeing a sight to match their despair, just beyond. Just steps away, just breaths away. Firelight danced from the spaces between the leaves.

Resolutely, he parted the vines.

To be continued...

Notes:

Kwisha is an invented place :)

Thanks to all for reading and reviewing. I think something's up with the author alerts, but I'm sincerely hoping everyone's still on for this ride. This fic si much less received than FEE1 (I know 2 years is forever in fandom) so I'm so thankful to anyone who still finds the heart to look me and my crazy ideas up. PLEASE send c&c's, they are both extremely encouraging and helps in improving the story. You know that, especially with an unfinished tale, I get a wealth of input from reviews. Please let me know what you think!

'Til the next post!


	8. Designs

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi gang!**

Thanks very much for all the comments. This fic is really tricky for me. It just feels like the Fellowship is so... _separated_. The charm of the first one had been the coming together of everybody, but this story is just like, the coming together of an explosive situation. I keep telling myself that the objectives of FEE1 and FEE2 were drastically different from the get-go but it's still hard :) So thank you very much for the support and thoughts. Please keep them coming of you can :)

Secondly, I really hope you enjoy this chapters. We'll be hearing a few answers, not to mention it's actually my favorite chapter. I enjoy writing Leland Greene at work (can you tell, haha) so let me know what you think. 'Til the next post!

* * *

7: Designs

* * *

Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

It was late in the evening, a couple of hours after the work day ended, that Leland Greene finally stepped out of the police station and into the breezy night. He was supposed to have gone out to dinner with his old friend Adrian Aarons, except the good doctor got called in on an emergency, rescheduled for lunch the next day, and he simply decided to push on with his own mounting work.

He parked his trusty car on the basement of his condominium, clutching a thick sheaf of papers and folders he decided to bring home. His laptop bag was slung over one shoulder. The considerable bulk of work he brought with him made the ornate elevator of the building seem crowded, as he made his way up to his floor.

_I wish I thought of bringing take out_, he thought, absently, as the elevator counted up 1-2-3...

_I don't have anything in the fridge_, he thought, _maybe I can call for pizza. Or did I have that yesterday_--

He stepped out to the austere hallway of the fifteenth floor, nodding at two neighbors whom he was mildly acquainted with, as he strolled toward his door. He fished for his keys a few steps from the entrance to his home, frowning as his elven senses were pricked by the sound of intruders shuffling from within his home.

"I think he's here," a voice whispered urgently, "Roberto called from downstairs. He saw Greene on his way up."

"I can hear sounds from outside," said another, "I think he's coming."

"But the footsteps stopped," said yet another man, "Maybe that was someone else."

"Do we even have the right place?" muttered a fourth, "He looks kind of clean to be living in a dump like this."

"Well he's a cop," said the first voice, "Maybe he bought the place and couldn't keep it up."

_Well someone broke into my house a few months ago_, Legolas thought indignantly_, I haven't had the chance to clean up_.

"I hear keys," said the third voice, "Keep it down. He's coming. You stand over there..."

Thoughtfully, Legolas jangled the keys a bit more, pretending he still had not heard them inside. From the hall, he didn't at all have to strain to hear their quiet footsteps as they positioned themselves.

_Four men_, he decided, _One on either side of the door, and two in front to greet me._

He did not hear the distinct, snappy clicks of guns being drawn and readied. They were probably holstered, or the men were unarmed. He did hear the tiny sound of scrunching gloves being rubbed against wood and steel. These were hands tightening on the surface of pipes and bats.

Sighing, he put his laptop bag on the carpeted floor. He gracelessly shoved the thick sheaf of papers in one of the bag's already-filled pockets. He removed his coat and placed it over his things. This, after all, could get fairly messy. He rolled up his sleeves.

He unlocked the door, twisted the knob and pushed the door open by a mere crack. He could feel the men inside tense, could hear their breaths as they waited for an unassuming entrance that he, as a seasoned warrior, would never be able or willing to give them.

In a flash of movement, the elf removed his guns from their holsters, shoved the door open with his filled hands, and dived into his condominium in a roll to avoid his attackers' potential strikes.

He needn't have worried. He passed the two stunned men waiting by the sides of the door in a blur. He rose to his feet just behind the two other men waiting in front of the entrance, whipped around to face their backs, and poised his two guns at each of their heads.

"Fuck," breathed the first voice. Leland Greene gave him a steely smile. He did not live all these ages to be mugged in his own home by a bunch of amateurs.

"You," Greene said to one of the men by the door, "Pick up my things from outside. Bring them in and close the door behind you. You," he said to the other one, "Turn on the lights."

"Suppose I don't," said the second man, as the first did the elf/detective's bidding, "You're not going to just shoot us. You're a cop."

"You broke into my house," Leland replied mildly, "You're more than me and armed and dangerous. I'll tell them I exercised my right to defend myself and my home. I'm going to walk. That's going to be a breeze. Shut up and brush up on the law before breaking in."

Legolas gave himself a moment to look the four men over. The protester, the first voice he had heard from earlier that night, was the oldest and heaviest of the bunch, undoubtedly their leader. He was of Hispanic descent, as was the lean one who had picked up Legolas' things. The heavy-set one whom Legolas held a gun to was a thick Caucasian with an almost indiscernible trace of Asian in his eyes. The other was likely half-African American. All were fairly young, the oldest at perhaps just thirty years of age. Leland noticed that the Caucasian kid had a distinct gang tattoo at the back of his neck. He's met all of them at least once before, he thought. Especially lately, since he and Montes have been combing the streets to find out what Bill Sanchez's Samba gang had been doing to merit risking open war.

"So boss," said the leader, "What are we going to do with each other?"

"I need all weapons on the ground, slowly," said Leland, nodding at him, "One by one, starting with you."

With set jaws, the man did as he was told, and was thereafter followed by the other three. Leland kicked all the weapons away, before shoving the two men before him forward, to join their two team mates standing in front of him.

"This is not a hit," Leland Greene deduced, thoughtful, "Or else you'd have come to me with guns blazing."

"I'm thinking maybe we should have," said the leader, almost wryly, which Leland Greene's ironic sense of humor profoundly appreciated.

"We've met," Leland said to him, narrowing his eyes as he searched his memories for a name, "Ortega."

The man actually smiled. "Thin one's Luis, fat one's Vince, the other one's Tony. We're from Samba."

"I guessed," Leland, said, holstering his guns and rubbing the back of his neck. Hesitating only mildly, he added, "That might not be wise, but I'm suspecting you came to me wanting to talk."

"We were going to pound it off of you," said Vince, plainly, "But I guess talking's okay too."

"First off you have to show me some trust," said Leland, "Samba sent someone for me. Is my partner Montes in any danger?"

"Not from us," said Ortega, "His grandfather was Samba. That's not done unless there are other people we could get to. Like you."

"I did not know that," Leland murmured.

"But Montes is clean," Tony was quick to say, "Not for lack of any of us trying to swing him. Cop on our payroll, all that. Except he didn't want to dance. He told us to shove off."

Leland looked them over, thoughtfully. He did not at all feel threatened by them, at this point. His overpowering feeling was mostly a craving for pizza and coffee. The hunger was fairly uncharacteristic, though he could probably attribute that to forgetting to eat these last... few... days? He was unsure. The coffee craving, unfortunately, not so much uncharacteristic, merely a part of his daily addiction.

"I'm calling up Montes to join us," said Leland, turning his back on them, practically daring them to pick up their weapons. Naturally, no one dared move.

"And I'm calling for pizza," he added, "But we're going to have that talk."

* * *

"So get this," Tony said, as he munched heartily on a slice of mozzarella garlic pizza, "My uncle calls me up, says he's got a good deal if I can cook it. Hey, this shit is not bad. I thought I'd want meat on it though."

"Can't help thinking it might be better," Montes agreed, "Pepperoni and anchovies will give it more kick."

Leland Greene brushed the critique on his culinary preferences aside, "What kind of deal?"

"The best kind," Ortega replied, "Too easy, too good to be true."

"But it's my uncle, man," Tony moaned, "It wasn't supposed to go sour. We were tight before I moved out here."

"Yeah well now everyone's dead," spat out Louis, "I wanna meet your uncle and 'thank' him myself."

"If your uncle didn't live so far away I'd hit him tonight," added Vince, "If he really was dead already I'd kill him twice. But it's kind of all for the best, I guess. The bosses cut us out."

"Said we were the funny looking bunch," said Ortega with a kind of ironic grin, "Well, well. Lookey who's funny-looking now."

"I'm not going to pretend I understood any of that," said Montes, "Straighten this shit out. If you're going to talk, be decent about it, you're eating the man's pizza here."

"He calls me up long distance," Tony continued, "Must have cost him an arm and a cow or something but there you go. My mother's been writing him, whining about me being in this kick-ass gang, after it took them so much to bring me here for a better life. Thought he was gonna beat my ears for giving her grief about it, but the man said he and his buddies found a cache of drugs. They want it out of their hands, and they want money for it. He asked if I can hook it up and I said 'hell, yeah.' But I gotta take it to my boss, I gotta know he's for real."

"Long distance from where?" asked Greene.

"Africa," Tony replied, "Big source of drugs, yo."

"That would be South America," corrected Luis.

"Whatever," Tony said, "Me and Mandela's continent, yo."

"I'm sure the similarities ended there," murmured Greene.

"How big a cache?" asked Montes, "And how did anyone verify what sort of drugs they were? Were any of the other groups aware of this?"

"Samba sent T's Uncle some good will cash," said Ortega, "Just pocket change, really. Couldn't help but check it. Suppliers in the market were killing the trade here. Thought we'd take a chance on some cheap dope. He bought himself a semi-automatic camera, photographed the loot and express-mailed the shots with a sick-obsessed wrapped plastic bag sample of the crap."

"Had our people 'test' it, you know," said Vince, chuckling, "In like, the only way they knew how. But they cut us out. Tony's uncle's making the deal and they cut us out. Gave the shit to others, said we were no experts or something. The big boys had to handle the stuff now."

"But it was a load of shit," Ortega said, "No effects or what. Uncle Crap. It coulda ended there but then it didn't. The damn photos looked good. Like someone was shipping loads and loads of the crap to somewhere. We saw stacks and stacks in a ratty old warehouse. Someone was gonna give that shit to someone. Even if the sample was bad, the story stuck. And whatever you know inside, it's gonna get out, you know? The A-line and Hellfire bastards wanted in. So the war started up. And then the bastards who tried out the crap Uncle Crappy sent started getting sick."

Warning bells were sounding in Leland and Montes' heads.

"Sick?" asked Greene.

Ortega shrugged, though his eyes seemed more afraid than his words and body language allowed him to tell, "Maybe it's just a bad bug. Fever, you know, headaches, like that. But they all tried the stuff. We came here 'cos knowing this shit might help you help us out. We got a Challenge from Hellfire and A-line. Samba's losing out 'cos there's few of us not-sick who can duke it out. If you nip it, the four of us here might live through this."

"Can you get me your uncle's contact details and the photographs?" asked Leland, "I'm assuming the drug samples are exhausted."

"All smoked out," Vince confirmed.

"The photos?" Ortega frowned, "That's gonna be tricky too. It's at the boss' place. He's sick as a dog. And I'm not touching that thing."

"And my uncle's out," said Tony, "Ma said he's dead. Got river flu or something. I was thinking he smoked the stuff too, or is hiding out 'cos we're all pissed as hell at him."

Montes looked at Greene with furrowed brows. "I'm not liking the sound of this."

"Is anyone grabbing the last slice?" Vince asked, though two oily fingers were already poised upon the crust, ready for takeover.

"It's yours," murmured Leland as he played with the information in his head. He stared at Ortega, whose intelligent eyes were practically screaming the gravity of the situation that the rest of his 'funny looking' group didn't seem to grasp.

"This is much bigger than Sanchez," Montes breathed, before catching himself. But apparently, Ortega was a quick study.

"I thought something was up with the kid," said the burly man, "I guess that's why you two were so hot into that drive-by. Well. Traitors are all right by me if they're dead."

"I need a list of everyone who smoked that sample," said Greene, getting to his feet and walking toward his files, tossing Ortega a pad and a pen. The group leader caught it cleanly, but let them fall to the floor the moment he realized what they were for.

"Hell, no," said Ortega, "That's going to mean my head. They aren't even going to no doctors and their questions, chief. No deal."

"Listen," said Greene, intently, "I know you can understand me because you're the only one of your funny club here who looks half as scared as he should be, all right? I don't know what they smoked. We won't find out for awhile. But whatever it is, it's potent stuff that's meant to go somewhere and hurt someone. You want to think it's bad drugs, that's fine. But don't tell me chemical warfare and bioterrorism hasn't crossed your mind or doesn't make you think twice. It's not just bastard crooks selling or buying this stuff who can get sick, it's people everywhere else. We need to know what this is, where it is and who may have had any contact with it. I need that list."

"I can't do that for you," Ortega said stonily, "I'm not a nice guy, make no mistake about that. I don't give a crap if this affects a stranger down the street or a gazillion more somewhere else. I came here 'cos I needed your protection. I want to stay alive. I'm not a nice guy. I do this shit for a living. If the thing worked, if there wasn't a war, if no one got sick I wouldn't be here. I'd have no qualms about hanging around on a goddamn schoolyard somewhere selling it to a kid and watching the cheerleaders practice. Giving you the list is gonna get me killed. I'm not going to do that."

"I can do that," Tony offered, surprisingly quite casually.

"Fucker!" Ortega exclaimed.

"I can," Tony said again, shrugging, "People wanna kill me for the shit anyway, I might as well do something kind of good or what. But I need to know I'm protected."

"I can vouch for that," Montes guaranteed, drawing out his cell phone.

Tony picked up the pad paper and pen from the floor. Leland watched with narrowed eyes, when Ortega made no move at all to stop him.

Tony wrote down the number "1" on the left side of the sheet, and made a careful circle around it. "How do you spell 'Roxanna' again?" he asked Ortega.

The burly man stared at him for a long, long moment before relenting. "R-O-X--"

* * *

_I actually have an entourage_, the prideful side of her whispered, miserably, _I actually can just ask someone else to do this for me_.

Arianne walked with a bit of a perturbed expression on her lovely oval face. She was oblivious to the stares she drew from men and women she passed by along the corridors of the hospital. She was simply quite focused on the task at hand which was, oddly simply enough, retrieving a shoe she had left behind.

_I'm sure he won't be surprised_, she thought, _Nor should he be. It is mine, after all. I shouldn't even have to worry about it. He should have called to say it was with the hospital if we wanted it back._

She found it actually annoyed her, that he didn't call. She had hoped there was a connection, that time. She was so sure!

_But why didn't he call?_

She went over to the pleasant, middle-aged receptionist. "I'm looking for Doctor Adrian Aarons."

"Oh dear," she replied, "In the morning he's on that office of his in the other building. In the afternoon he's on the floor, emergency room, surgeries. Very busy man. At lunch time he's just at the cafeteria."

She checked the clock mounted behind the woman. 1235. "Cafeteria, you say?"

"Third floor, hard to miss," the woman said with a wicked grin, "And I suppose it would be the best time to catch him, if you don't have an appointment."

"Oh," her cheeks flushed as she looked for the elevator, "He just has something that belongs to me."

She found the cafeteria with no problem at all. It was also quite easy to spot him from the sea of people having their lunch beak. His was the only face that did not look up the moment she entered the room. She ducked her head, and kind of breathlessly found the courage to slide into the empty seat in front of him.

"That is actually taken--" he was saying as he lifted his head from the newspaper he was reading. He stopped cold as his eyes rested on her face. He was quite simply stunned.

Equally surprised, she rose from the seat, as if burnt.

"Oh I'm sorry--" they both said at the same time.

"No, no," he laughed, silver eyes shining, "No, please. Have the seat, my companion is running a bit late. Assuming he hasn't forgotten at all about me."

She bit her tongue, kept herself from asking if he was waiting for a woman. Arianne regained the seat, gave him a soft smile.

"This is a surprise," he said to her, the laughter vanishing from his eyes. There was something there, a kind of cloudy worry and a mixture of regret and delight that intrigued her. "Is the ankle giving you problems again? The specialist I recommended had absolutely positive prognoses."

"Oh no," she replied, "I was... I was..." She was hesitating about bringing the shoe up right away. He might go get it and then send her immediately on her way. Which she did not at all wish to happen.

"Oh," realization dawned on his eyes, along with, she hoped, a modicum of disappointment, "Your shoe, I almost forgot!"

"Um, yes," she said, and it annoyed her again that he would almost-forget anything related to her. But he wasn't married, she was sure of that. Not gay either from what she could tell though that first day some of the nurses had hinted at this improbability. Besides, she was in the fashion industry, for crying out loud, if he was a closet diva, she would know.

"I know you must be so busy," she said, "I'd hate to spoil your lunch but I guess this was the only time I could come here."

_I came from Europe to make an excuse to see you_, she wanted to scream at him, _And I don't even know why_.

"Would you like some?" he asked, pushing the tray of soggy fries her way. She noticed that, perhaps in waiting for his lunch companion, he hadn't touched his burger though already started munching on the fries.

She wrinkled her nose at him, reclaiming her playfulness at the all-too ordinary sight. "Aren't doctors supposed to eat healthier?"

He looked disarmingly delighted that she would make fun of him.

_A!_ she thought triumphantly, _Familiar ground_...

"A vice of modern times," he said with a smile, "Would you like some? Or is it true that models do not eat?"

"Oh," she laughed, "We're hitting occupational stereotypes, are we?"

"Yes," he said, his grin getting wider and wider, "Models are catty and cruel."

"Doctors are clean and boring," she said.

"Models will break your heart," he asserted.

"Doctors will fix them," she said with a wink, making him laugh out loud, just before that cloudiness struck his silver eyes again.

"I can get you your shoe," he said, half-heartedly.

"You might miss your friend," she pointed out, boldly plucking a fry from his tray and munching on it, not willing or ready at all to be so dismissed.

"So how is your ankle?" he offered, fairly lamely. Even he winced at the awful transition.

"It mended very well, thank you," she replied breezily, trying to read the hesitations in his face. If she were flirting around, she'd have asked him why he seemed scared of her. But she liked him in a manner she could not comprehend. And she did not feel at all like playing games.

"So who are you waiting for?" she asked him, stealing another fry. They were a vice, indeed.

"An old friend of mine," he replied, "we have lunch once in awhile, unless he gets called in on his job, or I get called in on mine." As if reminded, he checked his watch. "I think he's going to stand me up."

She lightened at the "he." Not a date then.

"Oh he is a doctor also?" she asked.

"No, he's a police detective," said Adrian, "But we go way back."

"College?" she asked.

His eyes glinted. "Waaay back."

"I do not have friends like that," she said. Laughing, she added, "My parents died when I was young. I had nobody. I started working at age 15 and found no good friend, I've been too busy." Her eyes narrowed in sham gravity, "Besides, you know, models are catty and cruel, right?"

Adrian tilted his head, smiled at her. But then he stopped himself, shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "What are you doing here? I just about made a decision about you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, disoriented.

He sighed. Stared at her for a long moment. "I'm going to tell you something you probably haven't ever heard before." His phone was ringing. He growled, glanced at it, then stuffed it back in his pocket.

"I'm not what you're looking for," he said flatly.

"Excuse me?" she exclaimed, quite too-loudly. They were catching the attention of the room.

His beeper chimed too. This one he picked up and read.

"I have to go back to work," he told her, rising. He hesitated a moment, "Will you walk with me? I can give you back your shoe."

Numbly, she rose and followed where he walked. She did not understand how it could hurt so much that he, a stranger, did not want her.

* * *

Julianna Montes, like most mothers in the country, was more often than not a huge fan of play-dates. The mothers all took turns caring for a gang made up of their children and the children of their friends, so that a few times a week, they each had the free time to relax and do whatever it was that they wanted.

Like most mothers in the country, the only time a mother absolutely detests a play-date is when it is her day to keep the little monsters amused and keep them from killing each other.

"Mom!" Mikey whined, "Tessa's been in the bathroom since _forever_!"

"Oh honey, what did I say about drama?" she told him sternly, "We hate drama in this house and I don't plan on getting any from you. Let her take her time, all right?"

"Mom!" he exclaimed, "Me and Rick and Addy all need to go!"

_And that would be a mess on my floor_, she thought darkly.

She sighed. The three kids in dire need of a restroom shuffled in her wake as she knocked on the bathroom door.

"Tessa, sweetie, do you need help at all in there?" she asked.

"Tessa! Tessa!" the three kids behind her chanted. Julianna rolled her eyes and shushed them. If there was a reply she wouldn't have heard it.

"Tessa, sweetie?" she called again, "Do you need my help? We have to share the bathroom with the others, you see."

No reply.

"Tessa?" she called again, raising her voice slightly, "You know I'm getting worried, here. I need you to open this door for me."

"Tessa?" she called again. She frowned. There was a pounding in her heart that she could not understand or control. With quick steps she went to her kitchen, all the while trailed by the three chanting children. She drew out the key to the door from one of her cabinets.

"Oh I guess I can do that when daddy takes a long time," Mikey breathed.

_Note to self: change the hiding place_, she thought abstractly as she walked to the bathroom door.

"Tessa, I'm opening the door," she announced, "You three stay out here, all right?"

Julianna pushed the door forward and closed the door behind her. She could hear the shower running from behind the curtain.

"Tessa, sweetie, did you make a boo boo?" she asked, "I'm going to look, okay? I can help you wash up, all right?"

"It won't come off," a small voice came from within.

"I'll help you, all right?" Julianna asked, as she stepped toward the shower, "I will help you."

Julianna slowly moved the shower curtain aside. What she found stole her breath away. The young girl was soaked to the skin, her clothes clung to her skin as she stood in the middle of the cold water. The water falling from her body ran pink, as if dyed. It took Julianna a moment to realize it was from the blood that ran from her nose and gums.

"Oh honey, what happened?" Julianna asked, and her mother's heart reached for the girl, wet, bloodied clothes and everything, and pressed her close. She gave the top of the young girl's head a kiss, and held her face in her hands.

"I was hot," Tessa replied, as the burning heat of her flushed face warmed Julianna's hands and chilled her blood. "I was just so hot."

She screamed for Mikey to call 911.

To be continued...


	9. Code Black

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi gang!**

Thank you so so so so so much for the feedback. I really desperately need them, haha, I might be getting stuck, but this will finish. It has to, even just to satisfy my OCD haha. I'm so excited to get to FEE3! As a matter of fact, I already have the preview chapter that I will be including in my FEE2 afterword, according to tradition :)

Anyway... expect a few answers and a ton more questions this chapter.

Please review or comment if you can. It's really important, it reminds me to focus on things I may have taken for granted or forgotten to address, and it's profoundly enjoyable to see people's take on things; I mean, please, comment on everything from Leland Greene's favorite pizza flavor to why Adrian Aarons is being crazy for denying the love of his life... they keep me excited, and if it creates buzz for the fic, that's great too. I mean, ffic authors can only get paid in psychic income, haha... we just want to get the word out :)

But I also know many ppl don't have the time so either way, I'm already super thankful. Hope you have fun!

* * *

8: Code Black

* * *

_Queen and Country III_

The Horohoro

Africa

* * *

Harding and Goran found Aldrin J. Marr on the deck of his ship with his yes closed, breathing in the sent of the water and the mid-afternoon breeze. He was a weathered Englishman who cursed like a local and walked and talked like one too. Harding and Interpol worked with him often, because he shared their international sentiments while providing local expertise and firm networks due to his marriage to the daughter of a known smuggler. Harding first met him a decade ago, watching the World Cup at an exclusive gentleman's club in Kenya. He said he met the woman he eventually married and never looked back, except for London football.

Harding knew who he was even before they spoke, and knew exactly where to find him during the World Cup season. What he wanted to know was if he could trust him.

_You need me for a job_, Marr had said, almost casually, picking up on Harding's pensive expression.

_I'm going to tell you something important_, said Marr, _You can trust me as much as you can pay me. An Interpol agent can fetch a fair price in ransom nowadays, you know, but as long as you can pay more than anyone else for the things you make me do, I can give you exactly what you want. Isn't that great? It's absolutely nothing personal here. The currency is hard, the rule is simple. If you know you pay the best, you have nothing to fear from me_.

And a decade later they were still working together.

"What's the going-rate for an agent these days, Harding?" Marr asked, opening his light brown eyes and letting them settle on the now-much-more seasoned Interpol agent.

"Not much," Harding smirked.

"I cannot hustle you anymore," Marr grinned, turning to Goran, "When he was younger I can speak the language in front of him and tell someone else he's for sale for this much or that. If they can top the Interpol offer I promised them I'd give him up, there and then."

"I've learned," Harding pointed out, "Partly for my suspicion of you. I never knew that's what you've been saying all this while."

The older man grinned and shrugged.

"You used to work alone," Marr pointed out, jerking a thumb at Jimmy Goran, "Maybe we can sell him instead."

"You found the _Rosa Rasa _out at sea," Goran said.

"Is he always so serious?" Marr asked Harding.

"Only when we speak of giving him away," Harding replied coolly.

"She was ravaged by the storm," sighed Marr, "Few would have been as mad as I to go out to sea in that weather. I found it a welcome boon, like it was God's present to me. The ship was rickety and old but it was so white, out there on the blue-gray of the storm. I saw her right away."

"Crew?" asked Goran.

"They shot at us first," said Marr, "I got right pissed. I took the loot and left the lot of them there when I put crazy holes on it and sank the thing."

"Did you salvage any part at all of the _Rasa_ that can help us confirm the ship you found is the one we're looking for?" asked Harding.

"I took the books, but they looked cooked," Marr replied, "Will that help?"

"It might," Harding said, "What made you think it was cooked?"

Marr smirked, "For top dollar?"

"Always," Harding guaranteed.

"They said the load was goddamn fertilizer," Marr replied, "But one look at the stuff and you know it's something else. Not to mention I checked out the order forms and cursed like hell when I found one of that maniac YinYang's aliases. And then a few days later bastard himself lands in Africa looking for his ship."

"What's the cargo?" Goran asked.

"Have you dealt with him yet?" asked Harding.

"No," Marr admitted with a careless laugh, "I was still figuring out how to appropriately sell him something that I stole from him. You know, something that can keep me alive after we negotiate. I'm not an idiot. The kid can kill me with his bare hands. I worked with him only once before, just last year, and he scared the shit out of me. He can probably top your price, Harding, but that would really suck for me too, eventually."

"Find your dead body floating around somewhere," Harding agreed.

"If I get found at all," Marr agreed, "But that is that. The cargo, right? The cargo. I don't know what it is. Looked like drugs but the moment we found out YinYang was in on this, I didn't open the thing, not even for analysis. It could be anything from detergent to degenerative brain disease, you know, he plays with the big boys. The moment we found out YinYang was asking questions we knew the backer was huge, and we'd have to face off if the crap was found on us. We couldn't keep a stash like that aboard anyway, it made no logistical sense. We hid it inland, and paid a bunch of local fishermen to keep an eye on my warehouse until we could find out what to do with it. And well here you are, Harding, and now I think I know."

* * *

Kwisha Isle

Lake Victoria

* * *

Brad Greer's stomach was grumbling embarrassingly loudly, as he had adamantly decided he was not ingesting anything in this cursed little island. He sat on a rock, his aching legs stretched out before him. A dirty pair of gloves sat beside his drumming fingers, and a thin, battered paper mask hung around his neck, proof of the seemingly endless hours he had devoted to caring for the island's terrible sick.

Beside him, equally pensive and but undoubtedly less hungry, was Chandra Bouvier, enjoying a bright yellow banana.

"You think we caught it?" he asked her.

She shook her head as she munched on her snack. "You kind of know if you have, I've been told. It's a feeling in your stomach. The phrase 'an impending sense of doom' has come up a lot."

"I kind of have an impending sense of doom," he said.

"Well I have a feeling there isn't anything very new about that," she smiled.

"You're happy," he frowned, "I'm caught off-balance."

She shrugged. "Many people we're treating will die, that is true. But I do not know them, I probably care for them only insofar as I feel that I am doing everything that I can here. There is no supportive care here but what we offer, if they even wish to seek more help at all, which they don't. They have also inadvertently created the best possible containment here, all the sick staying in this island to avoid police. And even within this island, no new case has been reported in the last eighteen hours. This is a vast improvement."

"What do you think of what I saw, though?" Brad asked, "We have to tell someone. We have to stop it. Whoever it could be."

"You'll need a larger lab to confirm that," she said, waving almost carelessly at him, "I've considered it carefully over the night. Your check was preliminary, and will by no means be the last nor definitive. Even if you came up to, say, your government with this, they will not take any serious action without final confirmation from the CDC and USAMRIID. The samples have been sent already, someone else will see it."

"You didn't," he pointed out.

She looked at him crossly. "You wish to escape? Because I cannot beg your freedom, you know. You insisted on coming, they will say. Not to mention I wish to restrict any unnecessary exits from this island. I have discussed this with their leader. He concurs."

"I just need a phone line, you know," he said, "Something. We have to tell someone. I have friends. They'll know who to talk to."

"I will speak to him again," she promised, finishing off the last of her banana, "It's all right, you know. You should eat."

"I don't think I'll have the stomach for it for awhile," he admitted.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Arianne Underhill walked behind him, mutely, dejectedly. Her head was low, her eyes quiet and lonely. She would not even walk apace with him.

Adrian could feel her despair, and her confusion at his rebuff. It might have been that the goddess-like model-slash-actress had never been denied anything she wanted before. Or perhaps it was the weight of Arwen's legacy within her, feeling his rejection more strongly.

He did not understand, what came over him. Was he mad? He waited for her for ever, it seemed, and now she walked with him, and all he could think to do was deny her.

_As I perhaps should_, he reflected, _The last time you chose me, you died_.

_But she is human now, like you_, another part of him reasoned, _We'll no longer be plagued by the inescapable thought that one of us will die, ahead of the other, fated to be apart. We can have a heaven together, and we can have each other for a glorious lifetime, in the meantime. Many people, they live like that. And they age wonderfully, the grooves of the laughter they enjoyed etched deeper and deeper into their faces, as if they could only grow happier and happier. And I cannot say they have led is lesser, even if it were shorter._

But he was not like everyone else. At least, he did not at the moment think so. There was a high probability of him getting her killed in some other fashion. That was his life... even after ages and ages, and centuries of Aragorn 'asleep,' that fate was able to find him in Adrian Aarons. This is his life...

_Isn't it?_

Or perhaps... was it hubris to think that the history of ol' Aragorn still counted for anything in this modern world? Could he not be simply... here? Drink coffee, eat a burger, fall in love?

They took the stairs; he wanted to walk with her as long as he could. His beeper chimed again. A more pressing case than the one that had initially brought him here. With some regret, he walked faster.

They walked down to the ground floor, near the Emergency Rooms to the doctors' lounge. He stopped by the door.

"Arianne," he hesitated, "I... I don't know why you're here."

"Neither do I," she confessed, her cheeks flushing, "Can you please just give me my shoe so I can leave? You're obviously very busy--"

His infernal phone rang again. He glanced at the screen to check who was calling. Legolas, again. Probably calling to cancel lunch, or to apologize for forgetting. But then again, maybe not. Knowing the elf, it could be anything from coffee to calamity.

_That's the kind of life I lead_, he thought again, watching Arianne's face, _Approaching disaster could always be a possibility. Do I want to bring you into it (again)?_

_But I want to be just here too_, he thought_, Drink coffee, eat a burger, fall in love...?_

"I'm not trying to be difficult," he said, "Nor hurtful. I'm just confused, myself. I... I cannot let you believe that I felt nothing, when I touched you, or when I saw your face. I cannot let you believe that I do not want you to be here..."

Her eyes were getting a hopeful gleam that was warming his heart, quite suddenly, immediately. The woman had that effect...

"I know what I want," he finished, lamely to his ears, "I'm just not certain I deserve it. Do you understand what I am trying to say?"

"Not... entirely," she admitted.

He sighed, opened his mouth to explain further.

But she cut him off effectively, when she grabbed him by the collar and sank a kiss into him that stole his breath away. It stole his mind, drowned it in the intoxicating memories of Arwen's smile, Arwen's deft white hands, Arwen's embrace, Arwen's bed, Arwen sleeping beside him, Arwen sitting on the other head of his table as his queen, Arwen on his bedside when he died, Arwen and her eyes and her graceful limbs on everything that he could think about-- the chair, the table, the floor, the rugs, the windows...

She was his life. The kiss was not so much a reminder, but a staked claim.

_You belong to me_, she seemed to say.

And when she pulled away from him, the model-slash-actress' petulant look modernized this claim, as if to add, _So what the hell are you making me wait around for?_

_I'm yours_, he... realized. _Not_ decided, he found. There was simply no decision to be made. He was, quite plainly, hers to claim.

"I think--" he breathed at last, and Legolas' phone call was just ringing and ringing in his ears. He rejected it absently as he frantically gathered his thoughts. It rang again.

"Damn it," he muttered, plucking it from his pocket and pressing it to his ear. "Legolas, excellent timing as always. Are you apologizing for forgetting lunch? Because if that's all, I have--"

"Aragorn, listen," said the elf, urgently, "I don't know what you're talking about--"

_He did forget..._

"But I need to know," he continued, "Have you admitted anyone with a high fever and some heavy bleeding, from the nose or the eyes or anything like that?"

"I got a page," Adrian replied, more focused now, "They are bringing in a little girl. The ambulance should be here in the next few minutes." He glanced at his watch, "It is likely already here."

He heard the elf mutter a strong, distinctly offensive dwarvish expletive.

"Keep the patient in the ambulance," said Legolas, "Don't let the child, or anyone who may have had contact with her, to get into contact with anybody else. Bring protective gear."

"What's going on?" Aragorn asked, as he went to his locker and drew out gloves and masks. Arianne was watching him curiously.

"The child is off-profile," Legolas admitted, "But many of the infected people have families, could have passed it on to them--"

"Doctor Aarons?" a nurse popped inside the room, "The patient was just wheeled in."

"Legolas--" Adrian began, his mouth dry. But apparently the elf had already heard what the nurse said.

"You have to shut down that ER now," Legolas told him, gravely.

"Legolas, I need to know more than this--" Adrian insisted.

"A group of men brought into LA a kind of powder they thought to be drugs," Legolas said, urgently, "Now they are all ill. High fever, bleeding. We got in touch with the CDC early this morning, the moment we found out. They said we needed more information before we could round up everybody who made contact with the material, they said if we were wrong we'd have violated civil rights, that we can't just nab everyone on a list and decon and isolate them and things like that. Our informants got us samples of recently used belongings of those ill, and Montes and I cajoled someone in the CDC into processing samples all night. The results are getting everyone moving now. There's an emergency bulletin out to all the hospitals in the country, but I thought to call you. I was... hoping you wouldn't be there."

"What do they think it is?" Adrian asked, running his hand over his face.

"Some form of hemorrhagic fever," Legolas replied, "Possibly Ebola."

Adrian shoved the phone to a stunned Arianne, "I have to go. Keep this with you."

He let himself have a moment of regret, as he looked upon her clouded, worried eyes.

"I'll be back," he promised.

* * *

The call for a Code Black rang loud and clear for the hospital staff, though the occupants of the emergency room under siege would not have known it. It was, after all, an emergency room, and people within it were generally occupied by other things.

A signal for total diversion of all incoming ambulances to nearby hospitals rang out-- this one was not to accept a single one anymore. Discreetly, all ways in and out of the ER-- hallways, stairwells and elevators were closed down and guarded by security. The nurses switched all television sets in the waiting rooms off, and slipped in Disney videos in lieu of the news. Outside, policemen were gathering and creating a barricade around the emergency bay. And all mobile patients in the rest of the hospital were being prepared for possible evacuation.

Two other hospitals in the area, having admitted other cases that looked like Ebola earlier in the day, have also been locked down. The CDC closed down the homes and streets of everyone in what they have come to call as 'Greene's List (_he was not amused..._).' All flights to and from LAX have been diverted or postponed, and the same went for trains heading to and from Los Angles. Major highways were blocked.

One of the world's most active, popular cities was shutting down.

* * *

En Route to LAX

The Atlantic Ocean

* * *

The former lord and lady of Rivendell were surprisingly pleased with their first class flight.

Elrohir had booked the best for them, wondering how the elves would take to the fairly extensive confinement of an intercontinental flight. Granted, they were certainly used to long travel or uncomfortable steeds. But never have they traveled in such a tight space. He watched them from the corner of his eye, quietly sipping on the free-flowing champagne.

Grandmother and grandfather have elected to stay in Imladris with Gandalf, where Elladan remained with his perspective in-laws and their wedding plans. It was therefore, up to him to look after his parents, and that besotted Estel whom they were visiting. So far, the trip was proving to be comfortable and uneventful.

The pretty stewardess placed an artful, ceramic plate of creamy salmon before him. He loved traveling first class, though in his less sane moments he rode coach, where people were much more interesting. There were crying children, wild college girls on vacation and of course, weird families. He did not feel like being part of the "weird family" category himself this time though, and simply paid extra for the privacy and comfort of the twice-as-expensive first class ticket.

He sipped thoughtfully on his wine, thinking about the friends they were visiting. Legolas the cop. And then Aragorn the doctor, who is also currently Aragorn the lovesick fool. How odd, this life. How very odd. Which cruel god brought the two troublemakers into the same country, state, city?

He wondered if Aragorn's model-slash-actress was really his glorious sister Arwen, reborn. Arianne Underhill's name sure fit, at least, and the names were the first sign. And he was struck by her... her _light _when he watched her quiet, intelligent expressions in a cameo role for a British indie film. She glowed, and one could see no one else but her. Much like their Evening Star, who always seemed to shine.

A flashing red signal caught his eye. The pilot was requesting all passengers to put on their seatbelts. He glanced at his mother and father, caught their eye, and shook his seatbelt at them, to remind them that they should be worn now. Oddly, he felt no turbulence that required such a precaution. What he felt instead, was the plane turning, shifting its direction.

"Attention all passengers," said the pilot over the plane's speakers, "We will be experiencing a delay in our arrival to Los Angeles International. We have been requested to divert our landing to Atlanta International. This will be our port of entry, and we request that you be prepared with your passports and other travel documents. We apologize for the inconvenience. More announcements will be made as we come closer to landing, and arrangements will be made to assure our flight to Los Angeles resumes as soon as possible. Thank you."

Elrohir frowned. "Technical difficulties?" he inquired of a stewardess who was passing by him.

"Oh no sir," she replied with a smile, "The plane is in perfect condition--"

_As if you really expect her to say you're crashing if it were true_, he berated himself, belatedly.

"I believe the difficulties are downside," she said.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

"Why in hell would they call it Greene's Ebola List and not Montes'?" Rafe whispered to his silent, intense partner.

"It's not meant to be flattering, I think," Leland whispered back, sparing him a wry look, "I have a feeling they named it for me because when we were asking for their help, you asked more nicely."

They were in the dining room of the governor's hotel suite, which was terribly full of anxious-looking serious-types. There was a long table at the center of the room, overflowing with coffee cups and laptops and other pieces of sophisticated communications technology that Leland had never seen before. The burly, stern-faced governor sat at the head of the table, and his staff of advisers sat around him. The other seats were occupied by the mayor, representatives from the Centers for Disease Control, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Emergency Preparedness Department, Federal Emergency Management Agency, the U.S. Army and the Police Commissioner. Standing around the table were the seated persons' assistants, consulting experts or pertinent witnesses such as Greene and Montes, who were dragooned into the duty by their absent captain. The two detectives stood back in a corner of the room.

A large flatscreen television set on a prominent wall across from the governor's seat showed a similar scene, except this one was headed by the President of the United States and occupied by the National Security Council, and the setting was the Situation Room of the White House in the nation's capital.

Leland watched, fascinated, as the most powerful men of the country brought their expertise together to combat a threat. He, Montes and the other people in the "standing room section" were generally left alone to make notes, listen, learn, and spoke only when spoken to.

"The National Guard and the Police Force are in active coordination to enforce the quarantines and lockdowns," the Police Commissioner reported, "They are holding the quarantined hospitals and communities, roadblocks, the airports and other modes of exit and entry into LA. Auxiliary forces are handling the usual peace and order situations, including preparations for the looting we should expect when the street shops close."

"We're announcing a curfew to minimize that," the Governor stated.

"Have other cases been reported since we enforced the lockowns?" the President asked.

"None, Mister President," replied the CDC representative, "we are relieved to report that no new cases have been reported since we isolated the persons in Lieutenant Greene's List, and the three family members of Samba people who were checked in to three hospitals in the area. However, we cannot be certain that this is it. Ebola has a high record of infecting medical personnel, and the incubation period for this strain is longer than the usual. I'd say three weeks in the clear after the last case would be an indication of safety."

"Was this a deliberate attack on the United States?" the President asked.

"We have reason to believe it was not," the Police Commissioner reported, looking at Leland Greene and Rafael Montes. "Detectives?"

Montes nudged Leland to answer.

Leland cleared his throat, "Information from Samba members point to an accidental infection, sir. A relative thought he found a cache of drugs in Africa, called his nephew here and offered a trade. He sent in a small sample. All those infected can be traced to having tried that sample, or made contact with those who did. If I might say so, sir, the arrival of the virus in this case may be accidental, but more of that sample exists somewhere, and we cannot conclusively say that the rest of the cache is not directed at us."

The FBI man circulated the photos that Tony of Samba's uncle had sent. It was wrapped in a sterile bag, having been recovered from an Ebola victim. The photos featured stacks and stacks of neatly wrapped white powder sitting in a battered shed.

"We have confirmed that the man who sent the samples to the U.S. died from a similar disease when we tried to track him down," he said, "we cannot know for certain if it was the exact same disease, as his body was burned in the usual fashion of burial."

"We also have personnel on the ground in Africa who confirmed that Kasensero, where this man lived, is similarly plagued by the same strain of Ebola at present," the CDC representative mentioned.

"You currently have people in Africa?" the President asked.

"Yes," replied the CDC guy, "They were sent to investigate the outbreak a few days ago. Incidentally, the outbreak here and the outbreak there are caused by the same strain, when we started comparing. We are looking at Kasensero and areas surrounding it as the definite site of that warehouse."

"What are we doing to look for that, and whoever put it there?" the President asked.

"We are tracing the movements of the man who sent the samples," replied the FBI, "From a week before he sent the sample, right to his death. We have coordinated with the NCB, who is working with Interpol in Africa. But our own agents are en route right now."

"If this was in powdered form," said the President, "We are looking at weaponized Ebola. Is there anything distinct about the strain that can help us identify which lab made it?"

"As far as we can tell it is the natural strain," replied the CDC, "But Ebola as-is cannot survive without a host. The powder version allows it to survive longer outside of a host, not to mention allows it to... drift. Ordinarily, Ebola particles need to make contact with bodily fluids. The powder can be breathed, get into the eyes, et cetera. It is more prone to spreading."

"How do they do that?" the President asked, "How many labs internationally are capable of this?"

"We suspect a protein shell," said the CDC, "The fact is that this virus cannot exist without a host, and somehow it does."

"Many labs all over the world can do this," said the Army chief, "the trick is securing an Ebola sample to tweak and replicate. Terrorists have been suspected of going all the way to Africa, pretending to be health workers, just to secure samples. There was that incident in '92..."

"How easy is it to secure a sample?" the Governor asked.

"Not very," replied the CDC, "We and other international agencies keep an eye out for outbreaks like these. If there's an Ebola outbreak, we're there. And after that 1992 threat, anytime there's an outbreak, we also keep track of who goes in and out of the afflicted country. The only way to get samples without our knowledge would be if they got samples from sick people in unreported cases."

"At which case we have no information anyway," said the FBI, "But nevertheless, we are working with Interpol to check suspected terrorist presence in Africa during the most recent Ebola outbreaks. These are our suspects."

"All right," the President breathed, "Peace and order and disease containment issues here are arranged and handled. But we need to know where that sample came from and who made it. Are other states ready for a possible attack?"

"We are on standby," affirmed the Army Chief.

"All right everybody," said the President, "That's it for tonight. Keep the lines open."

To be continued...


	10. The Center of the World

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi Gang!**

Thanks very very much for the support and the c&c's. They are appreciated immensely, and I'm hoping to find the time to answer all your concerns in the next few days or along the course of the story. Keep them coming if you can. I think I'm nearing the completion of this tale, about 3 or 4 chapters short :) I'm excited to get to FEE3. Expect a preview of that in my usual afterword at the end of the fic. anyway, hope you have fun here :)

'Til the next post!

* * *

9: The Center of the World

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia 

The United States of America

* * *

Elrohir stared, open-mouthed at the flatscreen TV on a corner of the business-class lounge. His cellphone was to his ear, and he was leaving a message for Legolas, who had missed his call, when he heard Leland Greene's name on the news.

'You're kidding,' he breathed in his native Elvish. He ended the call without leaving a word on the machine, and he peered at the screen closer.

_Ebola...Quarantine...Leland Greene_.

'Damn it,' he muttered, dialing Legolas' number again to leave a message, "Hi it's me," he said, "I'm stuck in Atlanta. I'm watching the news. My plane got delayed because you discovered Ebola. In Los Angeles. By the Valar, _mellon_, how does anyone manage that? I was just thinking things were going so well. I even combined a fun playlist on my ipod featuring a bunch of fun California songs. David Lee Roth, Sheryl Crow, Sean Mullins, Phantom Planet--"

The beep ended his message. He sighed and looked at his parents.

"Ho-kay," he sighed, "How do I explain this--"

His phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction. It was, to his surprise, Leland Greene. He said "Hello?" uncertainly.

"What?" came the testy reply.

"What do you mean what?" asked the Rivendell elf.

"You sound surprised, that's all," Legolas replied, "When you leave a message, you should expect people to call you back."

"Ha," said Elrohir wryly, "So I heard you closed your state down."

Legolas gave him an un-elvish snort. "I heard you were coming, that's why."

"No need to be snide," said Elrohir, "So how are you?"

"Oh I'm all right," replied Legolas, "The feds are here, so we will no longer be handling the case primarily. Ironically, with the situation escalating to a potential national emergency, my workload dramatically decreased."

"What the hell happened?" Elrohir asked.

"I can't speak of it at length," Legolas answered, "But suffice to say a bunch of gang members thought they found drugs, and accidentally stumbled on a biological weapon. Many members and some of their families were infected. We had to take the best possible precautions against this spreading. Fatality rate is high, I heard someone estimate it's in the 90 percent region."

"What a mess," Elrohir agreed, "So any signs of this abating in the next few hours or do I get a hotel here already?"

"Not like you can't afford it," Legolas pointed out, "I strongly suggest you do so. This is just the beginning. This infection may be accidental but that weapon is for someone, and the rest of the cache is still out there, somewhere. The CDC estimates a safe declaration three weeks after the last reported case. If you and my lord and lady can stand to go back home, perhaps you should. But..." he hesitated, "I don't know. Estel's ER was locked down. No one in or out, since one of the victims checked in there and literally anyone she encountered could be infected."

Elrohir frowned. "Damn."

"He's all right," said Legolas quickly, "I spoke to him just before everything... exploded, I guess. But we haven't spoken, since. I think I'll ring him, after we speak."

"You do that," Elrohir agreed, "I'm giving Elladan a call. Please, keep me posted. You get busy there and we're in the dark here. I worry."

"I know, mother," Legolas chuckled, wearily, "I will not disappoint you. But I am guaranteeing you we won't be getting into any trouble this time, old friend. This world does not rely as much on our individual efforts. The feds are here, and I'm betting a CDC hotshot is taking over Aragorn's ER by now. You know I was in a meeting with the President?"

"Yeah?" Elrohir asked, fairly impressed.

"Yes," Legolas affirmed, "I was in the standing room. I spoke up once, very briefly, from the sidelines, and only because I was asked."

"Not what you're used to, eh?" Elrohir chided.

"Actually I've been living like this for years," the blonde elf corrected him, "We cannot live very loudly these days."

"Don't I know it," Elrohir agreed, glancing at his parents sipping their first ever taste of Starbucks. His mother had an appreciative, caffeine-generated glint in her eye.

"Well at least you get that Ebola List named after you," Elrohir joked.

"At 90 of them at death's door," said Legolas gravely, "I am not at all comforted."

"Fair of you to say," Elrohir matched his serious tone, "Well. I will see you soon, _mellon-nin_. Please, call once in awhile."

* * *

Lake Victoria, 

Africa

* * *

Harding put his cellphone in his pocket, glanced uncertainly at Jimmy Goran and Aldrin Marr, who were seated with him on the deck of Marr's speedboat.

"I got a call from NCB," he stated, "Ebola just broke out in California."

"What does that have to do with us?" Goran asked.

Haldir ran a hand over his face, drumming his fingers as he thought. "Do you ever get the feeling you're at the center of the world?"

"Everything is connected?" Marr clarified.

"African fisherman thinks he found a cache of drugs. He gives his nephew in LA a call, selling them cheap," Harding said, thoughtfully, "He sends a sample. Nephew passes it on to his bosses for analysis. Members come down with Ebola, CDC shuts down the state. CDC compares the LA sample to an Ebola sample from the outbreak currently burning through Kasensero. It's the same strain. Interpol's supposed to look out for terrorist activity here that could be a link to whoever is spreading the disease, and well... the Americans thought to call us."

"Fuck!" Marr exclaimed, "Fuck!"

"What?" Goran asked, "What?"

"I paid a bunch of local fishermen to guard the warehouse where I left that shit I pulled from YinYang's boat," Marr wailed, "Someone's selling my drugs!"

"Someone's selling your Ebola," Harding corrected him.

"You mean YinYang's Ebola," Marr added, glumly, "Fuck."

"We can put an end to it at least," aid Harding, "You're taking us to that warehouse, aren't you?"

"Hell yeah, get that shit off my hands," Marr said, "Today, if you can manage it. But you make sure and tell your people it didn't come from me, all right?"

Harding picked up his cellphone again. "Yes, Mark, it's me... You're not going to believe this. I need you to send me a CDC team to--" he looked inquiringly at Marr.

"Kwisha Islae," the Englishman replied, "But they won't find it unless they are with a guide. It's more of a nickname, really. Maps probably call it something else. Send the contingent to the Kasensero side of Victoria, I'll have my men pick them up. Tell them to be nice and that it's not kidnapping, eh?"

Harding relayed the message as Marr requested, adding, "And tell them to bring decon equipment. I think we may have found what the Americans are looking for. And pick up YinYang, will you? I think we have what we need."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

The United States of America

* * *

Adrian Aaron's phone was ringing for the nth time that hour.

Sitting alone in the doctor's lounge (many of them were either busy in the locked down Emergency Room or have been evacuated from the building, she heard), Arianne Underhill looked at the phone uncertainly. She wished he left her instructions.

"Hello?" she answered the phone at last.

The voice on the other end sounded surprised. "Um." The voice faded for a moment, as if the person on the other end of the line checked the screen to see if he dialed the correct number. "Hm. Hi."

"Hi," she returned, warily, "If you're looking for Doctor Aarons he was called in on an emergency."

_Hours ago_, she decided not to add, a bit sourly, as she has not only been requested to stay and wait for his return, she was also unfortunately quarantined here.

"Oh," said the man. _Legolas_, she remembered reading from the caller ID. It was an odd name, but she liked the way the sound rolled on her tongue whenever she said it.

"I can take a message," she said, "But I might not see him for awhile."

"Um," the man hesitated, "Who is this?"

"My name is Arianne," she said, "I'll tell him you called... Legolas?"

"Yes," came the breathless reply, "Yes, please just... Tell him I called. Are... are you all right?"

"That's a funny question," she said with an uneasy chuckle.

"Of course," he laughed, nervously, "Yes, I know... it is, isn't it? Hm. So you are in the hospital also?"

"Yes," she answered, "There is a quarantine."

"How does the situation look, from inside?" he asked, "I am Leland Greene, by the way. I work in the LAPD, 'Legolas' is a uh, childhood nickname. I was checking on my friend, and I suppose I might as well ask you."

"Well they brought in that poor little girl and everything moved quickly," she replied, "Suddenly everyone in the ER was to stay here for awhile. No one knew why at first, then cell phones started ringing and, well, it's so hard to keep people in the dark nowadays. People protested at the start. Then it looked like they were busting out. They were very afraid that if they weren't infected, they would be soon enough. And then your friend..." she smiled, "well I heard him over the speakers, and I saw him stand by the door and talk them out of it. He asked for food and of all things, videos and magazines. Everyone's calmer now. The CDC came and tightened security and isolation procedures. And since no new cases are coming in, everything's been very quiet."

"So he's all right?" Legolas asked.

"Their ER Chief was out for lunch when the lockdown was called," said Arianne, "They said he's the highest ranked physician now so he's been flitting around."

"Okay," Legolas breathed, "Listen. Anything happens to him, or anything at all you find you need, call me on this number, all right?"

"Thank you," she said, "and nice to meet you, Mister Greene."

"It's 'Legolas' to you," he told her, and she could hear the gentle smile from the sound of his voice, "Nice to meet you, Arianne."

_

* * *

Well she sounds like Undomiel, Legolas decided, as he pocketed his cellphone and picked up his jacket. He sighed. The day was long and tiring. He and Montes have been up since members of Samba broke into his apartment almost twenty-four hours ago. His partner was actually asleep on his desk, snoring softly._

Legolas looked at him fondly, and heard the soft vibrations coming from Montes' cellphone, sitting atop his desk. He glanced at the display and found Julianna Montes' name.

"Montes," he nudged Rafe lightly, "Julianna's on the phone."

"Take a message," Montes muttered.

"Come on," laughed Leland, "Get up. The sooner you get up the sooner you get to go home. I can drive you. Come on."

The phone call ended, and was logged in as missed. 27 missed calls.

Leland nudged him harder, "Come on, Rafe. Get up. Call your wife. She's probably very worried about you."

Rafe swatted away his friend's efforts, and grumpily returned the call of his wife. Legolas turned away to give them privacy, though his elven ears could hear everything Julianna was telling him.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asked him, irritably.

"Stemming national disaster, honey," he said, "I'm sorry. Leland dragged me out of bed last night and still has his claws on me up to now. We got tied up by the FBI, the CDC. We had a meeting with the President, did you know? I've had a rough day. How are the kids?"

A long pause that made both Rafe and Legolas nervous.

"Julianna?" Rafe askked.

"We're uh..." she hesitated, "One of Mikey's play date friends got sick. I brought her to the hospital. We're being detained here, like everyone else. And the CDC's closed down our house. The kids are with my sister, except for Mikey, who's quarantined in the hospital with me."

"Oh, God..." Montes breathed, "Oh my God."

"I mean I'm fine," she assured him quickly, "And even if you had picked up my call eons ago the situation would be the same. I just thought you should know. You'd have had a heart attack if you went home and found a bunch of CDC suits there."

"I'm having a heart attack right now!" Rafe retorted, "Jesus, Julianna..."

"I know, I know," she said, "I'm kind of scared but then who isn't?"

"Where are you?" Montes asked.

Legolas heard him mention the hospital where Aragorn worked.

"Okay, okay..." Montes muttered, thinking quickly. He glanced at his partner, and fully and correctly expected him to be on top of the conversation, "Any way at all that I can get in there?"

Greene shook his head, "I'm sorry Rafe, but no, I do not think so. But I do have a friend inside who can look in on them."

"Oh yeah!" Montes exclaimed, "Okay. You're all right, sweetie. We'll have someone in there look after you. We're going to give him a call. You're all right."

"You must mean Doctor Aarons?" she asked, "I saw him running around. He looked harassed, but he said hello and checked out me and Mikey for a moment. He's better looking than you."

Rafe grinned at the levity, "You're all right. I'll get the calls this time, honey, I promise. And no ogling at other men, all right?"

"All right," she sighed, "See to the kids, they're scared. Oh! And if Leland's bringing you to Dianne's, keep him in the car. You know my sister would just _love_ to see him."

"Ha," Leland said, wryly, "Ha."

* * *

Rafe thought it was perfectly ridiculous to leave his friend outside, and coaxed him in to Julainna's sister's house. Montes was mobbed by his crew of kids at the door, leaving Leland alone to stand next to the hostess who had opened the door for them.

"Dianne," he smiled at her.

"Leland," she greeted back, fairly coldly. When he 'accidentally' dated her (courtesy of her meddlesome sister and brother-in-law), she was terribly short-sighted and refused to wear glasses (_she did not like how it made her look_) and absolutely detested contact lenses (_the idea of willingly shoving a foreign object into one's own eye she also found to be disagreeable_). And so they had dinner with her squinting at him all the time. He initially thought she was confused about the things he was saying.

Now, her brilliant emerald eyes stared at him, as if she was seeing him for the first time (_which could actually be the case_), and he looked back as if he too was seeing her for the first time.

_Pretty, _he decided, fairly.

"Laser operation?" he asked her, with an uncomfortable smile.

"They work wonders," she replied, evasively. A bit belatedly, she added, "If I knew how much better the world looked, I'd have suffered through the neuroses and wore glasses or put on the damn lenses."

"Well you look... good," he offered up, fairly lamely. It was a profoundly irrecoverable non-relationship.

Montes was watching them, amused.

"It was very good of you to have brought Rafe," said Dianne, "Thank you."

Leland shrugged, and gave a smile and a wave at Montes' flock of children when they greeted him in a messy unison. "Hello gang."

"Thanks, Greene," Montes said, "You want to stay for coffee?"

_Not_ an offer from Dianne, Leland noted.

"Oh no thank you," he was quick and correct to reply, "I wouldn't be able to sleep at this hour, if I had any."

"But you don't sleep," Montes told him, wryly.

"So I guess you wouldn't be coming in for work tomorrow," said Leland, changing the subject, "What with the situation, you should be with your family."

"Everyone should be with their families tomorrow, Greene," said Montes gruffly, "Everyone but us, if you know what I mean. We gotta work. This is what we do."

"I'm sure the Captain would understand--" Greene argued.

"I just gotta be out there," Montes said, determinedly, "More I can do out there then cooped up in here. And you know, I'm going to lose my mind, just thinking."

"I can watch the kids," Dianne offered, "Most companies have closed down for the next few days, including mine. I like their company."

"Great, all set," Montes declared, "So you'll grab me tomorrow?"

"Sure," Leland replied, "I'll see you then."

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria 

Africa

* * *

"Why am I not surprised to see you?" Gimli groaned as he set his sights on Boromir of Gondor, hovered over a bloodied, likely-dying man on the ground. His clothes were dully stained with dried blood, and he had the haunted look of a soldier who has been fighting continuously for just hours and hours and hours...

Boromir frowned at him. "I don't know. I'm surprised to see you. What are you doing here? Did Chandra give you a call?"

Gimli, Haldir, and the dismayed and disgusted Aldrin Marr and crew found the makeshift ward Brad Greer and Chandra Bouvier have helped arrange in Kwisha. They came ashore cautiously, and found the plague island more or less organized by the two doctors.

"Did the CDC send you out here first?" Harding asked Brad, ignoring his confusing questions.

"What? No," Brad replied, also confused, "We were kidnapped!"

One of the kidnappers snapped angrily at him and pointed to Chandra Bouvier.

"What?" Brad asked testily.

"He said," she replied, "They kidnapped me, but couldn't get rid of you."

"Which is the same thing," Brad insisted.

Harding restrained an amused grin, waved away the issue. "So you were kidnapped and brought here to tend their camp."

"They thought they found drugs," Brad said quickly, drawing out the electron microscope photo he had taken of the virus, "But they actually found engineered Ebola."

"I know," Harding replied, wincing, "You know that exact same strain found itself in California?"

"Yeah?" Brad asked, brows rising, "That's not good."

Harding shrugged, frowning. "I'm with the guy who owns the stash. This is Aldrin Marr."

"But it's not my fault," Marr added gravely, "You tell them."

"CDC is coming by to secure this place and the weapon," Harding added, "I suspect they'll also be very pleased to see you if you were indeed kidnapped."

"I was kidnapped," Brad snapped, before sighing in relief, "Good, good. I just hope I didn't catch it while I was here. My blood made no contact at all with any of those infected, so theoretically I shouldn't catch it. That's the traditional Ebola route. I'm just scared that this weapon could be in the air, the index cases caught it from inhaling that crap. We were told the powder is in a warehouse further inland. No one would take us there, and in afterthought I find that wise. If that's where you think the lot of you are going, wait for the CDC team, get suited up properly first."

"All right," Harding agreed, before turning to Gimli, "We're going to need a secure line to the United States and tell them what we have."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

The United States of America

* * *

His head kind of just... popped into the room like that, as if she hadn't been waiting for hours and hours. He had a worried, apologetic look on his face, and he stood at the mouth of the door, as if asking for her permission.

"For gods sakes, Adrian," Arianne said quietly, shaking her head at him in amusement. His lips curved to a smile, and he sat down in front of her on the little dining table the doctors kept in the lounge.

"I am very sorry," he began, "I mean... I cannot apologize for keeping you here, these are the rules we must live by. But I was the reason you came at all and, well... here we are."

"Here we are," she echoed, and hoped she did not look very sorry at all.

"Did you go out at all?" he asked, "It's safe, you know, relatively speaking. The CDC briefed everyone a fairly optimistic version of what's going on, and then I put on a movie, it keeps everyone distracted and amused."

"What movie?" she asked.

"Something about penguins," he replied, "Good fun all around. I mean, who doesn't like penguins?"

"I think..." she said, her voice drifting.

"Hm?"

"You ended with that," she said, "Just before Legolas' phone call and everything else that followed. You were saying something."

"I was," he murmured, "Wasn't I?"

She nodded, enthusiastically.

"You ah... know Legolas?" he asked.

"Delaying again," she told him with a wry look, "Does he know you keep using him for this purpose?"

He chuckled at her.

"He called several times," she said, "I eventually answered. He was simply checking in on you, that first time. The second call he made was a plea to be called back." She handed him his cellphone.

"I suppose I'd have to accommodate," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"So what were you thinking?" she asked, wondering if he changed his mind or he actually, _actually _forgot.

"I was thinking," he breathed, and she looked deep into his eyes. There was something there, there always was. She saw it that first day, that first moment. In his eyes rested...longing, deep, unfathomable value, desperate desire and at the same time... hesitation, and, and _loss_. This time though, _this time_... there was a decision too.

_If I ever looked at something with so much wanting_, she thought, _I would not hesitate. There will be no doubt. Why do you hold back...?_

"I was thinking we can have coffee when we get out of here," he said in a rush, lightly. His eyes were inviting, and his smile was contagious.

"I like coffee," she lied, thinking, _I like you more_.

He could tell, and he grinned at her, as he dialed Legolas' number and pressed the phone to his ear.

* * *

When Leland Greene's phone rang, Rafe Montes was stirred from his thoughtless stupor on the passenger seat of the sensible Toyota. He jumped at the sound, and grabbed it from the cup holder Greene used as a cellphone depository. As he hoped, it was Adrian Aarons calling.

"At last!" Montes exclaimed.

"Detective Montes?" Aarons asked, "Well in that case I believe I know what this is all about."

"It's for me," Montes said to Greene dismissively. His partner of over a decade just grinned and drove the car along the lonely streets of LA. It was early in the morning. Sensible, normal people would even refer to it as _night_. But he'd barely taken a blink of sleep when Leland Greene called him, got him up from bed _again_, and asked him if he wanted to come along.

_"There's been some developments in Africa," Greene said urgently, "The President requested another situation meeting as soon as they can round up everybody."_

_"Aren't the feds in charge of this now?" Montes moaned._

_"I guess they wanted everyone who was on the first one to go to this one," Leland reasoned, "To make sure the issues are seamlessly handled. They don't mind too many heads on that table, as long as it's complete. I could go on my own, but I didn't think you'd appreciate it."_

_"Too right," Montes muttered, as he groped for his clothes on the floor of Dianne's living room, in the dark, and slipped them back on._

A police officer stopped them, in lieu of the curfew, and Greene presented his identification and a badge. Montes was preoccupied with news of his wife.

"She says she's all right," Rafe said to Adrian Aarons, "But she always says that."

"We are keeping a very careful eye on her, detective," Adrian promised him, "So far she looks well, and your son also. Their contact with the victim was extensive in terms of the time they spent together, but we strongly doubt there had been any blood contact, which Ebola ordinarily requires to spread. But we are cautious, as only time will tell. The incubation period is fairly long."

"It's your eye on her, right?" Montes asked, finding for some reason that it mattered. Anyone Leland trusted was okay by him.

"Just one amongst many," Aarons promised, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Anything happens..." Montes said, "You let me know, all right? 'Cos she might not...be as truthful..."

"I will always answer your questions frankly," Aarons said, "But she is also still entitled to her privacy. I cannot release information that she wishes to keep confidential."

"Oh I meant," said Montes, "You know. Just be upfront."

"Of course," Adrian replied.

"Good," Montes nodded. "Ok. I guess you wanna talk to Greene."

Legolas pulled up to a stop at the hotel parking lot. He plucked the phone from Montes' hands, and shifted to that language Montes could never figure out.

* * *

'So she's really fine?' Legolas asked, in Elvish. He pretended to be fiddling with his files and notes, so Montes would not suspect him of anything.

'I wouldn't lie to him, you know,' Aragorn said wryly.

'I know but,' said Legolas, 'He's my friend, and she's his life. The child too, of course.'

'There is nothing to be done at this point,' Aragorn said, 'They do not appear ill. But as I said, it takes time. The symptoms are not apparent at once. Especially as it appears more and more that this virus was tampered with.'

'I know, I know,' Legolas sighed, 'All right. Hm. What else. I talked with Arwen.'

'I know.'

'Sexy voice,' Legolas goaded him.

'You think so, eh?' came the wry reply, 'You forgot to meet me for lunch.'

'Oh,' breathed Legolas, 'I did, didn't I? But it seems you got yourself a good turn with Arwen there.'

'Much better company than you,' agreed Aragorn gravely.

The elf chuckled. 'So all is well? Quarantine? Love Life...?'

'Yes, yes,' Aragorn said dismissively, 'You're always stressed out.'

'Does that surprise you?' asked the elf, 'Listen, I have to go. We're meeting with the President.'

'Of the United States?' asked Aragorn with a laugh, 'Behave.'

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria 

Africa

* * *

"We have feed from Los Angeles," Jimmy Goran announced. He was manning his laptop, as a larger screen featured what he was seeing, for the anxious CDC and Interpol field teams present during the meeting. He, Harding, Brad Greer, Chandra Bouvier, a couple of ranking FBI, CDC and Interpol officers, and Aldrin J. Marr were cooped in their makeshift base camp, a pale tent in the plague island.

"We have feed from the White House," Goran announced, and the screen was split between the LA hotel room and the White House situation room.

"Sound check," Goran said over the speaker, "This is Outbreak Team in Kwisha, over. Are we loud and clear?"

"This is LA, we read loud and clear," affirmed the communications officer from California.

"Loud and clear from Washington," said the White House man.

The President, naturally, spoke first. Goran concentrated on the equipment. It was in re-checking that signal, sound and video were in proper order that he finally set eyes on the Los Angeles screen. His eyes widened, when he found his old friend Leland Greene standing amidst the crowd. He peered closer to make sure he wasn't seeing things, unknowingly blocking the view of the camera.

"We have a visual obstruction, Kwisha," said the Washington tech.

"Um," Goran scrambled for a lie, "Just a quick adjustment, Washington. Please proceed."

He realized he must have given the President of the United States and the government of Los Angeles a fairly daunting close-up of his face when he moved closer. Haldir was looking at him with a glint in his eyes, and when he turned his attention back to Leland Greene in LA, the elf had a hand over his mouth, as if to keep from laughing. He looked like he was faking a cough, unconvincingly. His partner Rafael Montes was looking at him suspiciously.

_Yeah, yeah, laugh it up_, he thought, annoyed. He just couldn't help shake that feeling Haldir spoke of, as if one were at the center of the world. _Everything is connected_...

Together, the inter-agency, international team recreated the situation they found themselves in.

A few weeks ago, a known international mercenary criminal nicknamed YinYang was given a scandalous amount of money for a job--the transportation of engineered Ebola virus from an unknown terrorist party, to a yet-to-be-determined location.

YinYang hired a local group for the cargo, whose ship was caught in a storm. Aldrin J. Marr and his crew of "Salvage Operators," he emphasized (_and lied_), "Not pirates," came upon the ship and retrieved the cargo from them. They stored this in their Kwisha warehouse, hiring some locals to guard the loot.

The locals thought they could make more money from the loot, aside from watching over it. Thinking it was drugs, one of them calls his gang-affiliated nephew in Los Angeles for a sale and sends a sample; an action that ultimately kills him, and infects other people in his circle of workers and their families, and the people who tried it in Los Angeles and their families.

Each of the agencies involved came upon the case through the many parties involved. Leland Greene and Rafe Montes caught the case from the LA gang side, the CDC caught onto the case from the Kasensero outbreak, and Interpol caught it from following the suspicious money trail involving YinYang.

"So we have the warehouse and the weapons secured?" asked the President.

"As secured as can be," Chandra Bouvier replied coolly, "Disposal is still an issue. But in terms of keeping it from anyone else's clutches, we have already done so."

"We also have positive confirmation that the warehouse here is the one from the photographs, Mister President," Harding said.

"So..." the President hesitated, "Does that mean we have neutralized this threat? We have the weapon..."

"And we have the primary mover," Mark, Harding's colleague added, "We picked up YinYang about an hour ago. We are preparing for the interrogation. But he's not known for... making anything easy."

"Is there any indication that any of that weapon exists anywhere else?" one of the White House men asked, "How can we be certain that that is it? It was pure luck, pure luck that we found out about this. If not for that storm, and everything else that followed... that cache could have been headed anywhere, undiscovered until it was too late."

"We are hoping the interrogation could yield more information," the FBI man in Kwisha said, "we are working together very closely to assure we get a wealth of data from the suspect."

To be continued...


	11. Black and White

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

10: Black and White

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

"You have that look on your face again," Montes said to his partner, who was driving the car and bringing him back to his sister-in-law's house.

"Hm?" Leland murmured, distractedly.

"You know," said Montes, "That Look. Like you're alive or something."

"Which I am, for a fact," Leland remarked, flatly.

"Don't kid around," Montes groaned, "Come on. I saw that Interpol guy there. I saw that Brad Greer guy there too. And that tall one, the computer guy too, I've seen you all together before."

"So you have," Leland said, "What about it?"

"I used to be your only friend," Montes pointed out.

"I had friends!" Leland argued, indignantly.

"Yeah, yeah," Montes waved the issue away, and he had the irate, dismissive look of a man who had no plans of taking away a log from a drowning man, "Anyway, you have tons of new ones and I don't think I can trust you with them."

For some reason Greene found this funny. "What do you mean by that?"

"Last time you 'vacationed' with your new friends," said Montes, "You were kidnapped, beaten, shot and just came a breath from a bombing disaster. Now somehow you're getting together again, and there's an outbreak going around. Get my meaning? Do you know more about this than you're letting on? Like that other time?"

"I do not!" Leland said, and he looked marginally offended, "you've been with me all this while, what in the world could I know that you don't?"

"I don't know," Montes grated, "I never know anything about you, lately."

"What the hell are you saying?" Leland asked, now obviously bristled.

"What I'm saying is that the last time you got together," Montes replied, more cautiously now, as he had never seen his partner be this annoyed at him, "The world shook, right? And now you're here, your doctor friend is in a locked down hospital, your Interpol pals are in Africa, and it's all coming together, and my wife and son is stuck in the middle of an outbreak, right?"

"I would never endanger you or your family," Leland retorted, "Or anybody, for that matter. Are you asking me why I don't have a normal, peaceful life? Because if that is what this conversation is about, then you should put a lid on it. That's an impossible question to answer. Now if you're accusing me of involvement in this, or any other crime in the past--"

"I'm not," Montes said quickly, "I never have, I never will. Jesus, Greene, your profile's cleaner than my mother's. You won't do anything. But you might know something you're not telling, which is not beyond you, we both know that. And I need to know everything now, you know, 'cos Julianna, and Mikey, they're caught right in the middle of everything."

Greene's look softened. "I know you're worried. But I don't know anything, all right? I wish I did."

* * *

It was surprisingly peaceful after awhile, although in afterthought, it really should have made more sense. With the Emergency Room on lockdown, there were no new patients coming in, and no confined patients in the rest of the hospital to see to. The CDC also took the helm, leaving him with actually less to do. Adrian wisely spent the time looking at the woman who has been plaguing his dreams.

They were caught in a comfortable silence, before Arianne glanced at her glimmering silver watch. The diamonds were winking at the lights.

"Somewhere to go?" he asked her, wryly.

"All the time," she replied, drumming her fingers on the table, "Someone will have noticed I'm not where I'm supposed to by now."

"Sneaked out?" he asked.

"I was hardly a prisoner," she replied indignantly, "But I think I just missed my flight to France."

"Work?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "Robbie will not be a happy camper." She giggled, nervously, "Much less when he discovers I'm here."

"A hospital lockdown can be alarming to most people," he told her, wryly.

"Well there is that," she conceded, "I also said I was just going to the spa-- in Paris, ha."

"You did sneak out," he smirked.

"I also discovered," she continued, "Paparazzi won't know to follow you if you travel without an entourage. Feeds the theory, doesn't it, that it is actually one's managers and publicists who let information on your location leak out."

"Maybe your fame is waning," he teased.

"Maybe," she agreed, mock-gravely, before adding, more seriously, "Do you have to be somewhere?"

He shrugged, "I have my pager, and people know where I am if they need me. I do my round of checks in about half an hour, but otherwise, I'm yours."

"That you are," she laughed.

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria

Africa

* * *

"Ever dated sisters, Agent Harding?" YinYang drawled, lazily, indulgently. The distracting uselessness of the question was properly illustrative of how productive the interrogation has been so far.

_Hour eight_, Harding thought, feeling quite sorry for whomever would be reviewing the video and transcripts of this conversation later. And there would be a review. The tapes recording would be reviewed to half it's life, over and over and over, to catch any nuances that could give a clue on who the weapon was from, and for whom it was made. That is, unless YinYang fesses up and provides some proper information.

For such a prize, Harding was more than willing to play along.

"What about it?" Harding asked.

Thin brows raised, "So you have!" YinYang looked at him closely. Those eyes can go through steel. "And saying it as simple truth too. Neither a liar nor a braggart. I can like you."

"What about it?" Harding asked again.

"You know what they say," YinYang laughed, "Two 'heads' are better than one?"

"You've dated sisters?" Jimmy whispered to his partner, fairly impressed.

Harding hushed him, and tiled his head at YinYang, "What does that have to do with the biological weapon?"

YinYang's eyes were glinting, "It has everything to do with it," he shrugged, "It has everything to do with everything. What else does a man live for?"

"Have you?" Harding asked, flatly.

"You're disinterested," YinYang sighed.

"I'm interested in everything about you," Harding assured him.

"Now that is something I do believe," YinYang grinned, leaning back further in his chair, looking quite relaxed despite the situation.

"I suppose I shouldn't bother to ask if you care at all that many people have died because of your actions," Harding said, "Hundreds in Kasensero and Kwisha, tens in the States, possibly more, we cannot know for certain yet."

"Already?" YinYang asked, "Impressive. They must have started earlier than planned."

"What plan?" Harding asked, "Who is behind this?"

YinYang wrinkled his nose at the Interpol agent, "I am disappointed. You honestly expected me to answer that when you asked."

"What do you care about?" Harding asked him, "What can we appeal to?"

"My freedom?" YinYang sfcoffed, "I cannot get it now, no matter what. My life? It is nothing without freedom."

"You are truly telling me you want nothing that I can give?" Harding asked.

"Nothing comes to mind," YinYang said, mildly, "Unless you think you can convince someone to let me walk."

"Now I am disappointed," scoffed Harding, "You honestly expected me to answer that when you asked."

"You shouldn't mock the people you need," YinYang warned him.

"It's how I show my love," Harding replied, sarcastically.

"I need you to respect me," YinYang said, shortly.

"I treat you with respect, believe me," Harding said, "Can you imagine how infinitely worse this can be? I need you to try."

"I can imagine," YinYang conceded, after a moment of thought.

"Who paid you to do this?" Harding asked, "And who is the target?"

"It's Ebola for chrissakes," YinYang replied, "Think. The target is everybody. I could have started from anywhere and it would get to the other end of the world, if done properly. One way or another..."

"The target is everybody," Harding said, "I can accept that. But where would the strike have been made?"

Often, if one knew the targeted country or location, the startlingly long list of suspects can be dramatically decreased to their respective nemeses.

"Everywhere," YinYang replied, cryptically, "Got any coffee?"

Harding waved a hand vaguely; someone observing the interrogation would have received the signaled request. "You have to give me more than this."

"I am giving you everything," YinYang claimed, "You just need imagination, Agent Harding, you need... _scope_. What could the things I'm saying mean, huh? What could you give me for the things you so desperately need? Think, _think_. And you have to be quick. Because sooner or later, you won't need me to tell you anything anymore, the situation will make itself known. And even if you finally knew, you wouldn't be able to do anything anymore."

"So this is not the last of this weapon?" Harding asked.

YinYang shrugged.

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

"Where?!"

"You can't get any further by shouting at me," YinYang snapped.

Harding took a deep, steadying breath, "When?"

"A few minutes ago?" YinYang sad, thoughtfully, "A few minutes from now? Tomorrow? Yesterday? I don't know." His eyes glinted, teasing., "But she will definitely fare better than her sister."

Harding's eyes narrowed in thought. YinYang _was_ giving some answers, the Interpol agent realized, just not too freely. There was a light in YinYang's glacial eyes, as if he was saying, _Well what would be the fun in that?_

_

* * *

_

Kwisha Isle went from the look of a makeshift camp raised by two weary CDC 'hostages' to an honest-to-goodness international base camp. The CDC presence was considerable, buffered up by a host of local health workers to look after the health of the infected persons. The CDC established a lab and living quarters for their people, and the FBI and Interpol created a joint living and command center. Even Aldrin J. Marr and crew were temporarily hired to provide transportation services and to make sure no one unauthorized was to leave or enter the plague island.

Brad looked at the proceedings glumly. He was bone-weary, and the uncertainties still plaguing this entire, well, _plague_, was making him very worried. He sat over a catered lunch on an honest-to-goodness cafeteria-like set-up, picking at the food absently. His weathered face broke into a long-unused grin when he saw Jimmy Goran emerging from the lunch line with a massive plate of food.

"Oi, Boromir," the ex-dwarf greeted, sliding in to sit across from his old friend.

"That's a lot of food," Boromir pointed out, "This is not at all like the old days. You keep eating like that and you are going to get super-sized."

Gimli shrugged, slurped on his, _note--_ Diet Coke. "I'm fairly active."

"You have been warned by the CDC," Boromir said lightly, suddenly finding the desire to start eating his own food. The company was making his heart lighter, his worries less bleak.

"You saw Legolas on the screen, right?" Gimli asked, "What were the chances of that?"

Boromir shrugged, "It's just the work that we do, I guess, the world and its agencies are highly integrated. But more than that, you know... After hundreds of years and we all still managed to bump into each other, you get the feeling things are supposed to happen a certain way. I'm kind of relieved it's us on this thing again, actually. If you know what I mean. I can't trust anyone else. Suddenly I wake up knowing I'm Boromir and I can't just stand to watch the world's history unfold. If we can do anything about it, well, there we go."

"I don't know," Gimli considered, frowning, "Aren't you scared you'd... I don't know."

Boromir smiled sourly, "You mean kick it? Am I scared that this is the time I do die? Because if we're all meant to find each other and we're all meant to fight evil, then it must mean I'm meant to die too, right? I have thought about it."

"I can tell."

"I can't not," Boromir said, "But I'm also sick of it, you know? I just want to live my life. I just want to see what happens next." He frowned. "Speaking of the future... do we all still have one? Did Haldir pick up anything from the little bastard?"

"No," replied Gimli, "No one has, yet. But that is expected. You go in and out that room though, or you watch from afar, and you start to see torture in their eyes. The interrogators, not excluding Haldir, want to go do this kid in, and I'm telling you, he's not scared at all. He'd have been given a rougher time, I think, if the international presence here wasn't so high. Too many witnesses. Even a glancing blow can be heard loud and clear. If he doesn't crack soon, though, someone's going to suggest doing something drastic and asking everyone else to turn a blind eye."

"I find I'm comfortable with that," Boromir said, and the moment he realized it, he wondered, "Is that so terrible?"

Gimli chuckled, "Not to a dwarf warrior like me. But I suspect you will find many sympathizers and few actors. The penalties are too high. Couldn't blame the Human Rights people, though. I used to be comfortable killing an orc any way that I could and sitting on it's dead body. That's irreverent now, I guess, because suddenly we find we are all alike in some way. This is a kid, Boromir, he looks like a testy child. Now hurting someone like that for information, I find I am uncomfortable with. If it works at all, which I also doubt."

"If it works?" Boromir asked.

"He's sharp," Gimli said, thoughfully, "It's all a game. I read his file. He wants nothing, he has nothing to loose. The worst kind of foe is someone who has nothing to lose and desires nothing."

"He likes money," Boromir pointed out, "He took this job for the money, didn't he? A mercenary is a mercenary. That's what's so good about it. Remember what Haldir said to that last guy he grilled, back in Austria? Just buy him. He's a mercenary, just... ask him to be what he already is."

"We can't seem to agree on the price," Gimli remarked, wryly.

"I wonder how much time we have, before this thing explodes," Brad reflected.

"He said something," Gimli shared, "Something I couldn't shake off. We told him people were sick in America. He said 'they must have started early.'"

"Didn't you tell him the outbreak there was an accident?" Boromir asked.

"We try to get more than we give," Gimli aid, "I guess that meant hitting California really was in the plan, no matter what plan that may be. There might be a second strike there, and this time, it's going to be intentional. Larger too, probably."

"Someone else noticed this, right?" Boromir asked.

"Of course," replied Gimli, "But I'm going to go call Legolas."

"That's good of you."

"No," Gimli said with a chuckle, "If you want to break this case wide open you involve the elf. He has a talent for finding trouble."

"You gonna tell him that?" Boromir asked, "He might not appreciate it. He's grown very square here."

Gimli snorted, continued eating his lunch. He was working through the pile fairly quickly. "You know what else he said that bugs me? He asked Harding if he ever dated sisters."

"Has he?"

"Yes but that's not the point," Gimli berated him, pretending he himself was not impressed when he first heard.

"I wonder how that worked out," Boromir murmured, "What could he have meant by that?"

"All I could think is that there is another cache floating around somewhere," Gimli replied, "Maybe bigger, maybe smaller, maybe the exact thing."

"Another one," Boromir blanched, "We barely touched the one here. I mean an old fool touched a small, stinking sample and created a nightmare in two countries. We have a warehouse full of that crap, and you're saying there's another one out there that no one knows about?"

"I think that's what he's saying," Gimli affirmed, "But the moment I got that feeling I checked if there's another _Rosa Rasa_ logged in somewhere, and there's none. I thought I might get lucky with a _Rosa Rasa II _or_ III _or something, but of course that would have been too easy."

"White Rose," Boromir said, translating the name of the boat.

"To be more precise, Rasa is more popularly known to mean blank," said Gimli, "Because of Aristotle and a bunch of other philosophers or something. Interestingly enough for you, my fellow reincarnated friend, the philosophical idea of the _Tabula Rasa_ holds that human beings are born with a blank, clean slate, and we only begin to gain knowledge from our experiences of the world. Nurture, over nature. I wondered if that had anything to do with it. But I found no boat named after anything resembling the philosophy."

"But you checked 'White Rose,'" Boromir asked, "You did, right? Maybe it's that simple."

"I haven't," Gimli admitted, "I got caught up in the other matters, and then I got hungry. But I will."

"While you're at it," Boromir said, frowning, "Check in black, too."

"Black?" Gimli asked. The conversation was headed somewhere, he knew it by the sudden pounding of his heart. He knew it as surely as he knew that they were all meant to be in the here and now, to do the best that they could for this world.

"_Rosa Negra_," Boromir said, and Gimli could tell he was getting that same feeling by the light in his eyes, "YinYang, you know. Black and white."

* * *

The Estate of Imladris

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Anatalia was looking over the preparations for dinner, when she felt she was being watched by a supremely keen, unmatchable observer.

She glanced up at the absolutely, gloriously enviable woman standing by the kitchen doors. Lady Galadriel, Halvor had called her, though the woman smiled serenely and often looked more proud to be called 'Grandmother' by the twins.

_Grandmother_, she thought grimly, _she looks like my _very slightly_ older sister._

Which was why, Elladan had told her, it was much better for them to be introduced to her parents as his aunt and uncle. It had been hard enough to convince them that Elrond and Celebrian were mother and father.

"Hello," Ana greeted the woman. Lady Galadriel had Elrohir's unashamed, quirky elvish ears beneath her long, golden hair. Ana was relieved her father and mother didn't know any better to look for them. Unlike Elrohir's artsy, blatant exposure, the new arrivals hid their ears in their long hair.

"Anatalia," Galadriel said with a smile. She had a beautiful accent, and a blinding smile. It was not hard to believe this woman was not of this world. She not so much as walked forward but... floated, toward the Italian.

The Rivendell elves aiding with the meal preparations murmured greetings to their Lady and excused themselves.

"What is that?" Galadriel asked, looking over at, well, _pasta_!

"Pasta," Anatalia grinned, "I thought, tonight, perhaps... Italian for dinner. That is my home country."

"It smells divine," the elf queen proclaimed, fairly royally.

"Your kind do not... eat much," said Ana, "But I thought, perhaps, you'd want to try something different. This is one of our best."

"Thank you," Galadriel said, watching the other's cautious face. Ana smiled uneasily, and turned her face away for a moment. The elf stared like there was no tomorrow...

"What are you thinking about?" Ana asked her, curiously. She was never one to fear, or cower. Uneasy as she was, she would not be stared down.

"It is very unfortunate," Galadriel replied after a moment, "That my grandson should find his love with a mortal."

She said it without offense, so Ana just stared at her and nodded. It was not a thought that was alien to her. She can be selfish, she knew. She knew she could have Elladan for the rest of her life, and he would have to live with the loss of her for the rest of his eternity.

"He might not be so unhappy," Ana attempted to joke, "When I age and he retains his youth, he can divorce me and find another."

Galadriel appreciated her attitude, "It will not be easy for anybody. But I have never feared for my grandchildren nor for those they love."

"I was told, about..." Ana hesitated, "Elladan's sister."

"She too loved a mortal," said Galadriel, "The glorious Aragorn. One could find no better man." She considered, "Or elf too, for that matter. She ached for him destructively when he passed. You will find we are very loyal folk."

"I do not want to hurt him..." Ana said, "But I... I cannot _not_ have him."

"I know," Galadriel said, "Such is love. And I will guarantee you that to leave him is to break him more. He has never loved like this, you see. Has never allowed his life to be open to another."

"Understandably," Ana said, gravely.

Galadrirel gave her an assuring smile, "Did they tell you I see hints of the future?"

"I have heard it said," Ana replied.

"I saw you," Galadriel said, "And I was glad for you. I am happy he found his heart here."

"What else can you tell of the future?"

Galadriel shook her head at Ana, and gently picked up her hands, "Sometimes, the future is a pain to see. Not to mention it still manages to be gravely uncertain. But often it is much better than we think."

"Am I doing the right thing?" Ana asked.

"Would you do otherwise even if it weren't?" Galadriel countered, "You can only do what you feel is right, when you feel it is right. The world cannot demand more of us. You love each other, and you are both here. This is your right, and this is your destiny."

Galadriel's graceful hands moved again, and Ana's heart thumped madly in her chest as the glorious elven woman's hands rested gently over Ana's stomach.

"Do not fear the future," Galadriel said softly.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Adrian Aarons looked remarkably happy, even at the very cusp of a national disaster. The woman beside him undoubtedly had much to do with it, and the nurses, doctors and fellow 'quarantees' who would look upon the beautiful young couple now and then certainly felt that few could be made unhappy by such a stunning person.

They sat in the waiting room with the rest of the weary, worried people stuck in the emergency room, watching a movie. They were cross-legged on the floor, as the room was fairly full. They sat side by side, and the only parts of their body that touched were their shoulders, barely brushing against each other. There was something nakedly intimate about the unobtrusiveness and space they gave each other. There was no obligation, no awkwardness just... habit. As if they've known each other for ever.

Someone had joked that maybe the model was having a case of "Stockholm Syndrome." The doctor, having closed down the hospital in effect kidnapped her. But then someone else pointed out that Doctor Aarons was a brilliant catch himself, not to mention it was _she_ who had come all the way here.

The persons in question were of course, clueless of these conversations, and even of the attention they were receiving. They seemed very content to just sit next to each other.

One of the more quiet watchers was a smiling Julianna Montes. She had an odd look about her eyes as she watched them, standing near the doors to the room, apart from everyone else. There was remembrance crossing her features, and a certain sadness too. Her son Mikey and his friends had bullied their way near to the front of the screen, sitting on the floor with the doctor and, Julianna supposed by now, his gorgeous girlfriend.

She ran a hand over her hair. Her fingers were shaking, mirroring the general tremble of her body. She was not feeling very well.

To be continued...


	12. Plan B

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi Guys!**

Thanks very much for all your support for the very convoluted FEE2, haha... Just to manage expectations on the coming chapters... This fic should have about 20 chapters, including my usual afterword. I've written up to chapter 19 already, and should be posting chapters every few days. It only gets razier for here. I hope you stay with me throughout the ride and I really hope I don't disappoint people :)

Thanks again and 'til the next post!

* * *

11: Plan B

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria 

Africa

* * *

"There's two," Harding said to the petulant young man sitting in front of him.

"Ever known me to be without a Plan B?" YinYang asked, almost irritably, as if he was profoundly annoyed at being underestimated.

Harding glanced at his partner, who was standing quietly at a corner of the room, holding a sheaf of papers he printed hastily after following Brad Greer's suggested leads. Haldir gave the ex-dwarf an approving nod.

"Are you re-thinking the options that are open to me now?" YinYang asked, "Are you thinking hard, about how much you need the things that I know?"

"Believe me I will give you my right eye if I thought it would get your pretty mouth talking," Harding snapped, before he sighed. He remembered that truth serum that was 'sampled' on Leland Greene not too long ago. Unfortunately, the Human Rights watchdogs were very heavily knowledgeable of everything that moved in the world, and an untested drug on a young criminal still counted as a violation.

_Sometimes_, he thought, gritting his teeth, _Sometimes_ he just wished for the allowances of a more barbaric time.

Unless...

If he could just scrounge up a sample from the illustrious Rigare family, who happened to be old friends. They'd have that lying around, it was developed in their laboratories after all. And truth serum, it gets into anywhere, _maybe _even coffee...

_But it's a dream_, he reasoned, _I'm not even sure how much time I have_...

He resolved to have some sent to him anyway, _just in case_.

"The _Rosa Negra_," Harding continued to show YinYang just how much they already knew, in the hopes of making him talk upon the realization that his only bargaining chip – information – was quickly running out, "Left at approximately the same time as the _Rasa_."

"Oh did it?" YinYang murmured, "But that's hardly the most important thing, is it? Where could the happy little ship be headed, hm? I bet you haven't discovered that."

"We found the _Rasa_ sunk to the bottom of the sea," Harding growled at him, "You cannot hide this one for very long."

"I can hide it long enough," YinYang snapped, "Again, I ask you: Are you rethinking my options? Are you weighing just how much you need my information?"

Someone discreetly stepped inside the tent, and slipped Harding a piece of paper.

"Looks like someone's been re-thinking my options," YinYang sneered, correctly guessing that the sheet of paper was an offer in exchange for his cooperation.

"You're not going to walk," Harding said, "But no solitary confinement, unless you so wish it. You will get special privileges, including unlimited access to the library, television, movies, music, other forms of entertainment."

"I want further education," YinYang said.

Harding looked at him thoughtfully. An oddly fitting and doable request.

"And Internet access," YinYang added.

Harding frowned, "I'm not certain I can trust you with that."

"Nor should you," YinYang admitted, shrugging as he crossed his arms over his chest, "But I'll let you think about it."

* * *

"Hey!" Brad called over to Dr. Bouvier, whom he spotted packing her things. She looked at him for a moment, before continuing with what she was doing.

"Where to?" he asked curiously.

"I'm needed at the mainland," she replied, "Everyone seems to have this place under control. The rest of the world awaits, you know, though you Americans seem occupied only with things that threaten you."

"Is anyone clear to leave Kwisha?" he asked.

"If anyone is, that would be us," she said simply, "Besides, I am headed back to the Kasensero outbreak site. They would call that the same banana, if you know what I mean."

"You weren't even going to say goodbye to me?" he asked.

She smiled a little and shook her head at him, in amusement. "I am not one for goodbyes. And I suspect we'll see each other again soon."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"I know a lot."

It was his turn to shake his head at her.

"So..." she asked tentatively, "Is that kid breaking?"

"Not that I know," Brad replied, "I heard they got some of his equipment though, the things with him. They're hoping they can recover a few things."

Her brows raised, "Must be quite a find."

He shrugged, "But most of it's toasted to hell. People are cautiously optimistic. Listen," he changed the subject, "I'd want to get in touch with you again soon, one day. Maybe we can have lunch. Or if I ever come down with Ebola, I'd know who to call first."

She looked at him, measuring, before coming to a decision.

"I won't write it down and I won't repeat it," she declared, "This is my private line, keep it in mind." She dictated a string of numbers, and he grinned at her cockily and just took it all in, as if it was so easy to remember.

"Good luck, Brad," she told him, an odd light in her wise eyes.

She threw him a smile as she tossed her rucksack to her back and just walked away.

He did not watch her leave. He scrambled for a pen from his jacket and wrote down her number on his wrist, before he forgot all about it.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

United States of America

* * *

It was his second, massive black trash bag.

Growling to himself, the former Prince of Mirkwood dragged the bag across the white marble floors of his once-glorious condominium, picking up boxes of pizza and cups of Starbucks.

_I really got careless_, he was annoyed to admit, as he finally found the heart to begin cleaning his home in earnest. Or maybe he not so much as found the heart as he found the... desire, to preoccupy his mind by busying his hands.

It was nighttime, and he was having trouble focusing on his job. Rabid Sanchez's murder would probably go unsolved, he realized, as it was piled on over, being the opening hit in a gang war, which in turn was now buried under a terrorist investigation for a biochemical attack. He was worried about Rafe. And then he was worried about Julianna and Mikey Montes...

In his typical, single-minded style, his home was free of trash in a single, determined hour. Striding over to his broom closet after he disposed of the trash, he considered using his Swiffer, or his compact vacuum cleaner to complete the job.

He tilted his head in thought, weighing his options carefully. It was in the middle of the benefits not having to set up the compact Swiffer that his cellular phone rang, likely his job tearing him once again from his chores.

To his delight, he saw the caller was Gimli and he answered it with a huge smile. "_Agent Goran_, how are you?"

"Listen elf I'm going to tell you something very important," Gimli said urgently. Legolas' brows rose, and he listened more intently.

"Haldir's interrogating this virus point-man," Gimli reported, "He won't break. I don't know if this is going to get filtered to you--"

"The case has officially been transferred to the lead of the FBI," Legolas informed him, "They'll ask us if they need anything."

"But you need to know this, all right?" Gimli asked, "Or well at least I need you to know this, all right?"

_Wasn't Montes just saying something about this_, Legolas thought.

"What's wrong?" Legolas asked.

"There's another one," Gimli said, "There is another cache of the Ebola, just like the one we found in Africa, except we have no idea where it is. We only know it was carried by a ship called the _Rosa Negra_, which has almost the exact same specs as the _Rosa Rasa_. But we don't know where it is or where it's headed. Haldir's trying his damndest to find out where, but we haven't had any breaks yet. The sister ships left at approximately the same time. Your feds know this already, and you'll likely get your marching orders soon but I thought you should get a head's up. You could get a second strike. Or a first strike, to be more precise, since the outbreak there is classifiable as an accident. We expect the next blow to be larger. The _Rosa Negra _could be headed your way... you have one of the busiest ports in the U.S."

"We _have _the busiest port in the U.S.," Legolas corrected with a sigh. He glanced at his broom closet. The Swiffer was winking at him knowingly, goading him that the chores would once again have to wait another day.

"So what are you thinking?" Gimli asked.

"This is off-the-record, right?" Legolas confirmed.

"That's up to your government," Gimli pointed out, "We gave them the information and the trickle-effect is up to them. But you're my friend, and this could be headed your way. And I'm not sure how much time we have."

"Can you send me the ship specs?" Legolas asked, "I'm unsure if we can find it, _mellon_, but it can't help to try. If it got to LA before the quarantine then it will still be here. I can go by the harbor and just... check. There couldn't be any harm in looking."

* * *

"So you make money from doing that?"

Arianne laughed at the child's incredulous expression. The European model found herself surrounded by the three children that Adrian Aarons was paying special attention to. Mikey Montes was the son of a friend, and Rick and Addy were his friends. The children were quarantined along with Julianna Mikey's mother when their friend Tessa was diagnosed as having Ebola. Adrian had excused himself from her company to go about his job, and the kids somehow just lingered her way.

"I make money from doing that," Arianne replied to Addy. _It's ridiculous, I know_.

"And guys too?" Rick asked, "Guys can just stand around and stuff and make money like that when people take pictures?"

"Yes," she replied.

"That's kind of wacky," Mikey said, making a face.

"I don't know," Addy considered, "It's just pictures, and you get paid a lot. You know, Arianne, I have this show and tell coming--"

The CDC people interrupted the lively conversation by handing out pillows and blankets for the night.

"I wish they'd give out toothbrushes too," Addy sighed.

Rick and Mikey gave each other high-fives, saying "Yessssss!" to express their joy over escaping the task even for just one night.

Arianne watched them with a smile.

"We're going to sleep right here with you," Rick declared to her.

"Good," she indulged him.

"Mik, where's your ma?" Addy asked.

"She went to check on Tessa," Mikey replied, his cherubic face clouding with worry suddenly. He glanced at Arianne warily, "Tessa's sick."

"Many people are sick," she told him mildly, "But they are taking care of her very well." She did not promise them the girl would be all right.

"We're here because we might get sick too, right?" Rick whispered, "I saw Tessa. There was blood on her nose and her eyes and everywhere. It looked like it hurt."

Subconsciously, the three children kind of inched closer to her, as if seeking warmth and reassurance that she wasn't sure she could give. It was odd; she had gone here to see Dr. Aarons again, and it was so easy to forget in the midst of one's joy that the rest of life went on, whether one wished it or not. There were battles to be fought in this room. She herself was here precisely because _she_ could be ill.

She simply gathered them to her body, rubbing at their arms thoughtfully, as if to warm them. Her cellular phone started to ring, and she sighed.

"Can I answer it?" Addy asked, the little girl eager for the distraction, "you haven't been answering it since forever."

Arianne gave her a complicit smile. "I guess it would be a good time."

"Hullo?" Addy greeted, Arianne guessed, her manager Robin.

"Arianne where the hell are you?" he demanded. Addy pulled the phone from her ear and wrinkled her nose at the volume.

"I think he's angry," Addy whispered at Arianne.

"Arianne pick up this phone right now!" Robin demanded, "What's this I hear that you're in America?"

Arianne, surprised, opened her hand out for Addy to hand her the phone. "Robbie?"

"At last!" exclaimed the man on the other end of the line, "I thought you'd been kidnapped!"

"Who said I was in America?" she asked him.

"When you didn't appear for the show we all had to backtrack," Robin growled, "_Not_ very good of you by the way, Ari, _not_ very good of you."

"I was supposed to be back in time," she said sheepishly, "And then there was this quarantine--"

A string of expletives.

"You're in Los Angeles?!"

She must have been a little bit hysterical, for she laughed quietly and whispered to her arrested audience of children, "I'm so in trouble!"

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria 

Africa

* * *

"Brilliant," Jimmy Goran muttered sarcastically as a veritable pile of ruined _crap!_ was dropped on top of his desk from a plastic crate. Mike, their Interpol colleague, said that these items were recovered from YinYang's person. He tried to destroy them all (_fairly successfully_, Goran thought darkly) when he was picked up, and this was what was left.

"Toasted laptop, check," Goran commented as he sifted though the items, "fried digital organizer, check. Roasted mobile, check--"

"Don't be such a wise ass, Goran," Mike advised him, "We fought tooth and nail to get the first crack at this. We have eight hours because we nabbed him first. Then the Americans get second dibs. But we want this thing cracked wide open before that, and you're our resident genius."

"I am, aren't I?" Goran shrugged, hunching over the ruined equipment, "I think there might be some things I can do with this."

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia 

The United States of America

* * *

The glorious Peredhils accosted the presidential suite of the hotel partly for preference, and partly because the hotel was cleaned out of basic rooms due to the number of stranded travelers staying there.

_Not like you can't afford it_, Legolas had pointed out, though Elrohir was beginning to see the money just burning before his eyes at these usurious rates. And to think he used to be quite happy sleeping under the starry skies!

Elrohir switched on the massive television screen of the home theater in the recreation room of the three-bedroom suite to watch the news. He also drew out his laptop and cell phone and placed them upon one of the ornate tables.

"So tell me about this 'Ebola,' we've been hearing endlessly about," his father asked him. Elrohir glanced at the Lord Elrond, whose look today had the serious calm and curiosity of a healer.

"You remember the fevers of the _edain_, father?" Elrohir replied, "This is the severest form of this. It is also viral, one could catch it easily if infected fluids of the ill make contact with someone else's blood, or mucous membranes or anything that could get the viruses in the other's bloodstream. It has been suggested that this virus is carried by monkeys, but no concrete evidence has pointed to a definitive carrier. All we know is that once in awhile, humans are plagued by a 'micro-break' where several people are infected. Symptoms include severe head and muscle aches, fever, vomiting, dehydration, dry coughing and stomach pain. Distinct to Ebola is the massive hemorrhagic bleed. The blood is just... well, ruined is the word, I guess. It is just a train wreck, it doesn't clot. People usually die from the blood loss. 90 of those infected, as a matter of fact, for certain strains. There is no preventive medicine, and there is no cure. Medicine can only provide supportive therapy-- keep the fever from boiling your brain, keep you breathing, give you blood, stabilize your blood pressure."

"Elves are immune?" Elrond asked.

"As far as we can... theorize," Elrohir admitted, "Your only test subjects would have been us in Imladris and Legolas, after all, and we haven't ever had contact with the material to determine. But I would say so. Ebola can barely infect other species aside from humans and monkeys. As we are genetically different and have a proven immunity to most other human illnesses, the same could be said of Ebola. Do you concur?"

Elrond rubbed at his chin in thought, and nodded. "The quarantine is administered well?"

"No new cases have been reported after the first ones," Elrohir said, "I suppose so."

"And Estel is quarantined in an infected facility?" the elf lord asked.

Elrohir winced and nodded.

"Hm," Elrond murmured, an unreadable expression in his ages-wizened eyes.

"But he'll be fine," Elrohir said quickly, editing out that in his readings, Ebola had a certain talent for infecting medical personnel, "Legolas said they won't be seeing very much action, this time."

* * *

Los Angeles, 

California

* * *

Adrian Aarons stepped away from her with an unreadable expression on his pensive face. Julianna watched him carefully as he examined her for the nth time since they were quarantined here. He had a mask over his face, and gloves as he worked on her. She stared at his silver silver eyes in search of... she was not quite sure. She knew how she was feeling. She knew she had held that child in her arms as she bled and cried in the throes of the disease that was claiming her. She knew how close she had come. She knew...

_So what then_, she asked herself, _Are you looking for from this man?_

He met her eyes squarely. "Mrs. Montes..."

"Julianna," she corrected him, almost absently, as if her life did not depend on the things he was about to say.

"Julianna," he repeated, "How much contact did you have with Tessa Bosco?"

"I held her..." she replied, "I must have kissed her head. She looked scared. Or maybe I was."

"And she was bleeding at this time?" Adrian asked.

"Yes," Julianna answered.

"You're running a fever," Adrian told her something she already knew, "And the disease usually presents in this manner, aside from the other things you described to me-- headaches, muscle and stomach pain."

"Hm," she... managed. How was one to react really, to hearing such a crazy thing? She gulped, cleared her throat. "Mikey was with us. And his friends."

"If they did not have body fluid contact," Adrian said, "You should not have anything to worry about. But as in your case, we have to wait to see. Ebola presents in as little as two days. For others, much longer."

"How much worse is this going to get?" she asked him.

"We caught you in the very early stages," Adrian answered, "We can give you medicine to keep you hydrated, try to lower your temperature, try to thicken your blood to minimize the hemorrhage we can expect later on, give you medicine to keep you from vomiting..."

"Pain killers?" she asked him, wryly.

He appreciated her dry humor, and affirmed her assumption with a nod.

"So what do we do now?" she asked him, awkwardly.

"We'll be isolating you," Adrian answered, "Hook you up to an IV, make sure you're as comfortable as possible and watch you very closely."

"How's the little girl doing?" Julianna asked, "Is she...?"

Adrian's eyes seemed to darken a shade. The child had slipped into a coma a few hours ago. The prognosis was far from favorable. Quite, quite far.

"I see," Julianna murmured, "I'm not going to get to say goodbye to Mikey."

"With this diagnosis," said Adrian, "We cannot allow physical contact."

"I wouldn't want to anyway," she breathed, "He might just get it from me." She peered at him closely. His protection from her was minimal, as it had been all those times he examined her. "Won't you catch it from me?"

"It is most contagious in later stages," he replied, "Not as you are now. But from here on, after the labwork, I am mandated to take a higher level of precaution."

"I'll be looking at you through a wall?" she asked sarcastically.

"Just a plastic mask," he said, and she could hear the grim smile on his face, "I was in touch with your husband earlier."

"Don't tell him," she said quickly, "Not yet. He'll just worry. It's not so serious yet, right? He'll just drive my relatives crazy, out there. Not to mention himself. Not yet, okay? Promise?"

"And your son?" Adrian asked her tightly.

"Tell him I'm with Tessa," she said, "Which is, in a sense, also true."

* * *

San Pedro, 

Los Angeles

* * *

In terms of container volume, the Port of Los Angeles is the busiest port in the United States. All 7,500 acres of it, and its 43 miles of waterfront.

Leland Greene did not care much for beaches and ports, as he shared Legolas Greenleaf's aversion to the sea and all of its calls and memories.

But you live in_ California, _his partner once pointed out, when Montes invited the bachelor to join his family for a day at the beach and he politely and insistently declined.

He remembered shrugging and just letting the decision stand.

He parked his car and sat there, thoughtfully. He was alone. He glanced at his mobile. If the FBI did know about the threat of a second ship, they were certainly not involving him in the investigation at all. He was debating the wisdom of coming here.

_7,500 acres and 43 miles of waterfront_, he thought bleakly, _Where in the world was I thinking of starting...?_

He hadn't even bothered to call Rafael Montes. He's been kidnapping his partner late at night for the last few days, after all. Men needed more rest than elves did, not to mention Rafael had to carry the burden of having to worry about his wife and child.

He also did not feel like having to explain how he came upon the information that he had. Rafael was worried about his family and it was making him testy, something Legolas did not want to have to deal with at this time.

He heaved a sigh. He read on-line that some government officials regarded U.S. Ports as possible holes in homeland security, claiming that while millions of shipping containers moved into the U.S., possibly only about 5 percent are thoroughly inspected. He also read, that over the course of a few years of requesting security grants, the ports have received as little as 20 percent of their estimated needs.

The more he thought about it, the more it was possible that Jimmy Goran's _Rosa Negra_ was headed his way. Los Angeles was a major city, and had one of the most important ports in a country that was unfortunately often a terrorist target. The LA Harbor was also unfortunately known for chronic congestion of cargo, which meant there were many things going on at any given time, and things _can _be missed amidst the bustle. The fact that there were also security holes in ports in general makes the entry of illegal goods and terrorist weapons actually, terribly _possible _here.

_But where do I start_?, he asked himself.

He got off his car, locked it almost absently. The harbor community was more than pleasant; clean, simple, straightforward. Busy, even at the late hour of the night. Busy, even at the height of a quarantine that allowed no one in or out of the state. It had an industrial, active feel, combined with a summer-y atmosphere courtesy of charming paths and beaches. Aside from the busy ports, there was also some construction on a development or other.

He walked around. The sea breezes were making him a little melancholy. It seemed that no one thought to strictly enforce the governor's curfew in this town, as he walked about with no one bothering him about anything.

Other people were out tonight too, some of them headed somewhere in a rush, perhaps home, perhaps, even in these late hours, work at the ports. Some just walked absently toward wherever, a bit like himself, and they would toss odd glances his way.

He walked along a wooden boulevard, hands in his pockets. Life seemed to go on here, just on and on. He could hear the sea and smell it, and he could hear the bustle of working men and he could also see and hear lovers strolling and talking.

_I wish I brought Montes_, he thought, _I wish I brought _somebody.

There seemed nothing out of the ordinary in the LA Harbor tonight. Nothing extraordinary at all. If the feds were here searching the cargo, people would be much more on edge.

_Maybe they're in Oakland_, Legolas thought of California's other busy port, and while he was at it, considered other active ports in the country also, _Maybe they're in Louisiana, maybe New York, maybe Texas_...

There were hundreds of options. For that matter, there were hundreds of countries to choose from as a target. No wonder there was no none here, yet. How in the world could the government, with it's limited manpower and funding, possibly choose?

_But this is where _I _am_, he thought, as he decided to let the FBI figure out for themselves where it was that they wanted to concentrate their efforts. This was, for all of its good and all of its bad, _his_ city.

"So are you ready to take the next step?" he heard a man ask his girlfriend, as he passed them by.

"You ready to be a daddy if you knock me up?" she retorted.

Legolas hid a smile behind his hand, and he walked away, faster. He passed by another couple, who quietly just held each other.

_Honeymooners_, he guessed.

And then another couple, smiling nervously at each other. Legolas knowingly watched that distinct line of space between their knuckles. He was desperately shy, and she was playing coy. There was absolutely no body contact between them.

_First date_, he decided.

He came up to another couple, and by the expressions on their faces, and the animated way they were discussing, he was thinking this was a lover's quarrel.

"Cassie you just have to come with me," the man was insisting.

"I already told you I can't," she said exasperatedly, and Legolas got the impression this conversation has been going on for some time now.

"But we've always wanted to go away together," he argued.

"And I've always said I wanted to," she replied, "But I told you I can't this time. We can't get off-state anyway. I'm sure they'll take the refund... I told you not to plan anything without asking about my schedule first."

"Cassie, please," he insisted, "We have to."

"Todd, I can't," she snapped, "All right? Drop it."

Legolas walked away faster. He was glad such things never became his problem.

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria 

Africa

* * *

The dwarf was laughing to himself.

The sound was a delectable little cross between a growl and a guffaw, a throaty sound accompanied by tell-tale quaking shoulders. Watching him made Boromir grin, though in contrast, it hardened Agent Harding's features grimly.

"You have progress," Harding murmured, leaning over Jimmy Goran's shoulders to look at the computer screen he'd been working on for hours and hours now.

"Of course," Gimli replied, though he punched up a few more keys in satisfaction before he indulged his ex-elven partner. The screen before him was running up pages and pages of numbers.

"What are we looking at?" Harding asked, impatiently.

"Phone calls made to and from that bastard kid's mobile," Gimli grinned, stretching his arms over his head, "Oh I am _good_."

Strings of numbers. Hundreds of numbers.

"If these mobiles are kept on," Gimli said, "We can trace this, easy."

"They probably just used it once or twice and tossed it," muttered Harding, "That's why you have so many. He couldn't have been coordinating with that many people for this operation. And I doubt YinYang keeps the same phone for every job. But naturally we have to try that."

"Those are a lot of numbers to work on," Brad frowned.

"I'd de-prioritize the numbers used most often," Harding said, "If the suspects use a number for a job like this a lot, they'd probably toss that phone afterwards. The ones not used as much are numbers they probably kept longer. They wouldn't be as bold about using numbers that they keep."

"But we still have to check," said Gimli, "Even if a number is no longer being used, we can access recent signal records, and look at where these calls were made from and what time they were made. Once we know when and where, we can probably borrow surveillance cameras from these locations and actually _see_ a suspect."

The ex-dwarf grinned at Harding. "Now _that_ I saw from James Bond."

* * *

Armed with more information, Harding, Mike and their FBI counterparts drew out YinYang again to resume the interrogation.

"We salvaged data from your equipment," Mike said, without preamble, even before the young man got to sit down.

"Oh good for you," he mocked, "I'm very glad."

"Your bargaining chip is running out," the FBI man said, "I want to make this quicker. And you want the best deal. You gotta start playing."

"Don't be shy about it now," another FBI man insisted, "Think of yourself. Whoever hired you is pissed as hell at you now that everything's going up in smoke. We can protect you. And you can give them up now, because you'll never get another job after this anyway, we're putting you away for ever. But you can make the conditions good for yourself."

"You've always been very practical," Harding told him, flatly, "you've always taken care of yourself well. You're a smart man. Don't the things we say make any sense to you at all?"

"You received and made a lot of calls to and from North Korea," Mike told him, "Is South the target?"

YinYang started to laugh. "You really should look more into that. I _came_ from there, are you sure I wasn't just calling my goddamn mother?" He recovered himself, "Besides, it's _Ebola _for crying out loud, right? North's not going to hit the South if the goddamn border isn't enough to keep a weapon as virulent as Ebola from reaching them back. Same goes for your other traditional geopolitical rivalries. So let's not waste our time talking about Israel and Palestine and India and Pakistan and the Capulets and the Montagues. Think about it. You make something like that and unleash it, you have to open yourself to the possibility that _everyone_ is going down."

Harding set his jaws, clenched and unclenched his fists in thought. He glanced at the FBI and his Interpol colleagues. "I want some time alone with this man."

Mike glanced at Harding cautiously. It was a look that the other members of the room shared. The question, the warning in their eyes were crystal clear. _Are you going to hit him? Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure the information's worth a career? How are we going to explain a gap in the surveillance...?_

The group shuffled out of the room, and YinYang looked at Harding, appreciatively.

"You were my favorite," the young man declared with a disconcertingly beatific smile.

"You keep giving us hints," Harding told him, "Like you're torn between helping us, or are simply toying with us. It's not very wise. You'll never be free with all that you've done. But you can use what you know and purchase a better situation for yourself. But you keep giving hints away, keep giving time away, and in the end you'll have nothing."

YinYang peered at him, closely. "You read people well. But you're wrong, about certain things. I am not toying with you at all. I'm trying to come to a decision."

Harding's brows raised. "A decision?"

"Black or white, right?" YinYang scoffed, mocking himself, "Do you do the good or the bad? Please. How simplistic."

"But it is a traditional conflict," Harding pointed out.

"It is never just two," YinYang reflected, "Or maybe there is always just two options. But then you find yourself asking, which is black, and which is white...?"

"So you do believe in something," Harding hazarded, "Not just a mercenary after all? Though I'm sure the pay helps."

"It is lucrative," YinYang said, dryly, "But I must not be mistaken for the pure cold. That is so hideously uncomplicated. I find that I am, instead of uncaring, just simply deeply and profoundly ambivalent about many things. The money swings the decision, because it is the unquestionable quantitative factor. When you don't know what is black and what is white, the money gives you something concrete to rely on instead, and you do whatever gives you the money. Now the money's gone, my freedom's gone, and again, I'm caught between two decisions, and I'm not sure which is right."

"Millions of people could die," Harding retorted, "The answer should be simple."

"Not really," YinYang replied, "Sometimes the world needs a little jolt. Maybe it's the right millions of people."

"Ethnic cleansing?" Harding asked, thinking that the weapon was targeted to a specific racial background.

YinYang shook his head, "Just... cleansing."

Harding took a deep breath, as if he was trying to calm down, except as soon as he released it, he grabbed YinYang by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and pressed him against the wall.

YinYang smirked at him, again, looking on appreciatively. "Are you really going to do anything?"

Harding stared at him for a long, lethally quiet moment. The smile never wavered from the young face.

"You're trying to tell me something," Harding murmured, "No more games. Just say it, cleanly, clearly, unquestionably."

"I'm not trying to tell you anything," YinYang argued, "I'm simply trying to come to a decision. Are you going to do anything to me?"

"I'm trying to come to a decision myself," Harding mimicked, growling as he backed up a step and pushed YinYang away from him, almost disgustedly. The young man sagged cavalierly against the wall, sliding until he sat on the floor.

"I wasn't fooling around," YinYang said, "When I said I liked you best. You want to know why?"

"Oh for god's sake, indulge me."

"Because if it should come down to it," YinYang said, "You'd kill me to find out what I know. I think. I think you'd really kill me for what I know. I'm almost tempted to see if I'm right. I admire that kind of conviction. What do they do to you if you hurt me?"

"Well you won't get released that's for certain," Harding replied, "Even if I were brutal to you. We're bound by different laws."

"I know," YinYang waved coolly at the issue, "I meant _you, _Agent Harding. Listen closer. What do they do to _you_?"

"I'll get slapped with a reprimand," Harding replied, "Maybe a demotion. Undoubtedly a dent in the record. Undoubtedly a career setback. Maybe worse, depending on what I do and who finds out. Most will be relieved I did what I had to. Some will not be as pleased with me..."

"I read somewhere," said YinYang, "That reputation is what other people think of you, and honor is what you know about yourself. I think... you have a very keen awareness of who you are, what you want, and what you are willing to pay."

"What about it?"

"As I said," YinYang repeated, "I admire that kind of conviction."

"Enough to tell me what I need to know?" Harding pressed.

"Enough to let me consider telling you what you need to know," YinYang replied, "I need more time to think it through. But I can give you crumbs, as I have before. If you can act on that, good for you."

"I'll take anything," Harding said fervently.

"You shouldn't be looking at a particular nation as an adversary," YinYang said.

"We assumed as much," Harding agreed.

"And..." YinYang hesitated, almost smiled, "I believe you should be looking for a very passionate and gifted madwoman."

To be continued...


	13. Exposure

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hey gang!**

**Head's up, a two-chapter post **:) You know I hate leaving things at 13, so there will be two new posts, 12: Exposure and 13: God's Art. Technically, that still leaves it at 13 (since FFnet's Chapter 1 was actually my Chapter 0). But well, I couldn't very well give you three right away, right? So I figured, I can just go with the FFnet count :) Anyway, some developments you may not welcome in this chapter...

Thanks for the c&c'! Keep them coming if you can :) I already finished writing the fic, so I'm just managing my time. I also make little editing things here and there, in the event that your reviews remind me I missed on something :)

Also, **VERY IMPORTANT**. If you want to be absolutely blown away, check out this link (I added in spaces in case it doesn't come out right in ffnet, but there shouldn't be any)-- http // ilxwing. spaces. live. com/ for **illustrations of For Every Evil 1**, that totally blew me away. Ilxwing's work is absolutely out of this world. Drop her a line, tell her how great she is! When I looked through her work, she helped inspire me to continue with FEE2. I really really hope you check it out. I have a personal favorite that just makes me smile. I'm very quirky and humorous so many of you might guess which one it is. Anyway, **check it out**!

'Til the next post!

* * *

12: Exposure

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Leland Greene went back to the precinct with no sleep at all. He prowled about San Pedro until the sun started to rise, and then he drove back home for a change of clothes. To his dismay, he discovered he forgot to do his laundry according to schedule, and simply grabbed a rarely-used t-shirt and jeans, and tried to cover the informality of it with his designer overcoat.

Still, he arrived for work a bit late. The precinct was already busy. There was a distinct hum of energy enveloping the station. The FBI must have finally coughed up some definitive direction on the information from Interpol that Jimmy Goran had called him about the night before. He found everyone gathered in the conference hall.

He handed a cup of steaming Starbucks to his partner, and slid to a seat beside him.

"You're late," Montes growled at him, "And you look like shit."

"_I_?" Leland retorted, looking at his partner's wrinkled clothes and gruff exterior. He hadn't shaved this morning, Greene guessed, and he looked haggard and unhappy. His brows creased in worry. "Julianna...?"

"Oh she's fine," Montes muttered, "But that doesn't keep everything from sucking. Couldn't sleep. The kids are scared."

"You should just go home," Greene told him.

"We've had this conversation..."

"We're going to keep having it until you see the sense of it," Leland admonished him, mildly, "Really, Montes. If you take today off, there would still be some crime to fight tomorrow, eh?"

"Sounds familiar," Montes replied, grinning sickly, as he once told that exact same thing to Greene not too long ago, "Someone really smart once said that, I think."

"He has his moments," Greene smiled, "Once in awhile, he makes surprising sense."

"But I can't be very sensible this time, buddy," Montes sighed, "If I stayed home I'd end up thinking about it and thinking about it and calling her every five minutes. She'll be mighty pissed."

"But you spoke last night?" Leland asked.

"Yeah," Montes replied, suspicious, "She sounded overly chipper."

Leland's brow quirked. "Well perhaps after the initial emergency of the quarantine, they have finally gained a sense of normalcy and calm there."

Except he did not truly believe that, since he knew Julianna Montes fairly well. He would have to give Dr. Adrian Aarons a call...

Montes gave a noncommittal grunt, as their Captain stepped up to the podium and began to brief them on things that Leland Greene had known since the night before.

* * *

Children were not at all equipped to handle the aggression of the disease. In fact, a scant few people were, but children and the elderly stood by extremely slim chances of survival, once afflicted.

Tessa Bosco was a little wisp of a girl. She had a tiny frame, a beautiful young face. She must have looked delicate when she was healthy. Being ill, she looked close to... to _shattering_.

_She's already dead_, Adrian Aarons thought morosely, as he looked over the child. She had slipped into a coma uncountable hours ago. He heard that the child's mother, from whom she got the disease, was also at death's door and had no chance of survival in another locked down hospital across town.

Still, he fought on for the child, as they all did. The quarantined persons in this ER would not handle a death very well... There would be panic, he foresaw, there would be attempts to escape, as the death will create a dire realism of the disease that could eventually befall_ all_ ofthem.

He walked to the child's bedside. He was wearing a special, plastic blue suit that the CDC brought for the hospital personnel. A doctor's movements were usually very delicate, and precise-- it's the edge of a knife, the point of a syringe... but the suit and the gloves and the mask over his face was making his job near to impossible.

Tessa was twitching, her brains were shot to hell, sending odd signals that created quirky, erratic trembles up and down her body. She looked like she was on the verge of _explosion_.

Literature on the disease that ravaged her body claimed that one of the greatest survival mechanisms of Ebola is that, in its final stages, it makes the body into a virus bomb. Everything in the body is saturated with disease, and as the body dies, it seizes and convulses, throwing blood and other fluids around the room, wildly. White hospital walls have historically been wildly splattered by blood in that final, earth-shattering quake. As if the virus was seeking a new host.

The machines monitoring the child's health suddenly beeped in alarm. It was not the first time it happened, but as in the times before, it could be the last.

Methodically, the nurses and Dr. Aarons fell into their usual positions, as the child began to convulse and throw and cough up copious amounts of blood. Her body was no longer her own. It was even besieged by an alien strength as it defied its weakness and thrashed violently.

One of the young interns they muscled into working larger responsibilities since they were undermanned and he was already quarantined with them), stepped up to the child's arm and pressed a syringe to her body, to minimize the seizures. Her arm jerked, violently. He jumped back, drawing out the syringe with him.

"You got it?" Aarons asked him.

The syringe was pressed halfway through. "Not all of it, doctor, I'm...I'm very sorry."

"That's all right," Aarons said to him, calmly, assuring. He was young, and his eyes looked like he was scared out of his mind. His hands were shaking slightly, visible even from beneath the laborious protective gloves. He rounded the bed to come up beside the intern.

Casually, he opened his palms out to the younger man, asking for the syringe. "When was the last time you took a break?"

"I..." he scrambled for an answer as he handed the equipment over, all too quickly, as if he wanted it away from him as soon as possible, "I can't remember, Doctor."

Adrian's hand closed around the syringe carefully, as he smiled grimly at the younger man. He moved to the child's side, and pressed a hand to her forearm, to hold it steady for the rest of the shot.

As soon as he held the child, however, he felt a distinct pin-prick on one of his fingers, such that he snatched his hand back by instinct.

"Doctor?" the intern asked him, breathlessly, eyes wide in fear.

Adrian's brows furrowed, and he looked at the syringe he still held in his hand. The needle looked shorter than the usual, and its tip was an unusual jagged edge. It had broken off when his patient jerked and his intern jumped back...

The rest of the needle was on the patient's arm, protruding discreetly, visible only if one looked close enough.

"Doctor?" the intern asked again, looking for false assurances, as he began to come to the same conclusion.

Adrain gave a grim smile. "Doctor. Please secure another syringe, inject her as planned, and watch out for that needle there. I have to take care of this."

* * *

He was smart enough to be very afraid.

His steps were quick out that room, and he fidgeted as he waited for the Lysol shower's standard twenty minutes to clear his gear or any biologically dangerous material. Once in the clean zone, he tore off his protective gloves. The latex glove beneath the Tyvek of his right hand had a small red dot of blood on it, near to the center of his palm.

He had been exposed...

His ringing cellphone jarred him from his thoughts. He was torn, torn between letting the gripping fear sink in and answering that profoundly annoying instrument and breaking the spell, the temptation to sink into momentary despair.

_I deserve it_, Aragorn told himself, _I deserve a breath to feel sorry for myself_...

Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he glanced at the screen.

_Legolas_, he thought miserably, _Just what I need._

Again, torn. He will likely answer the call. These were, after all, times of emergencies. But to say or not to say that he caught the disease? The elf would worry uselessly. But then he would be royally pissed if Aragorn died not having said a thing. Not to mention... Aragorn felt that he no longer had the solitary warrior's luxury of keeping hurts to himself, like he used to when they toured the world together. If he died _now_, there were things that needed taking care of...

"Legolas," he growled, annoyed at himself.

"What's the matter?" his greatest friend replied, knowing by the sound of his voice that there were things amiss.

"You called?" Aragorn asked, more steadily.

'Do you have any news on my partner's wife?' came the reply, in Elvish, 'I have reason to suspect she is lying to her husband about everything being well.'

Aragorn sighed, 'I cannot reveal her status if it is not by her consent, you know this.' He hesitated. 'But such a vow is also tempered by right judgment. They have children, I heard, with a lot of growing to do. Suffice to say that if Detective Rafael Montes is in the field in this time of crisis, I would watch his back very carefully, for the sake of the children.'

A hasty exhale, from the other line. Aragorn knew Legolas understood the nuances of his recommendation. There was little to be done for Julianna Montes at this time, but her husband, Legolas can try to protect if they wanted to keep the children from becoming orphans.

'I understand,' Legolas replied, 'But he is making it difficult to be protected. I will do my best.'

"Good," said Aragorn, shifting back to English, "I... I also have a spot of news, if you will." He paused, and Legolas gave an encouraging sound.

"I may have caught the disease myself," he said quickly, before he changed his mind.

A long string of obscene, dwarvish curses.

'You have a foul mouth,' Aragorn snapped at the Elf in the same language.

'What the hell did you do?' the elf groaned, this time in his own tongue, 'You know what? Never mind. Dear gods...'

'I can't be sure until the symptoms present themselves,' Aragorn said, 'But the likelihood of missing the disease after I shared a needle with an infected patient is slim to none. And no, I did not do it on purpose,' he added wryly.

'Dear gods...'

'But,' Aragorn said, 'If I do catch it, I'm at the peak of my health and at the best possible group for survival. If anyone can fight it off, statistically speaking, people in my physique stand the best chance.'

'It has a 90 percent mortality rate,' Legolas retorted, 'I hardly find that comforting.'

'Why are you mad at me?!'

'I'm not mad at you,' a sigh, 'I'm just... this is crazy.'

'I need your help,' Aragorn said, after a moment, 'If I die--'

'You will not--!'

'Hence the word 'if',' Aragorn snapped, "Please, _mellon-nin_, pay attention. If it happens, if I die, do not remind Arwen of who I'm supposed to be in her life, all right? Let her live her life forgetting. Let her find joy elsewhere. Do you swear?"

A sigh/growl. The sound was an interesting hybrid, expressing both frustration and resignation. "I swear. But as you said, vows are made tempered with a degree of judgment. If I feel she needs to know, I will break my silence. But you won't die, and this will all be for nothing, do you hear?"

"I hear," Aragorn smiled, "Thank you, old friend."

* * *

"Fuck," Leland muttered, uncharacteristically. He ended the call he made to his friend, and slammed the mobile once on the dashboard before pocketing it.

"Woah," Montes breathed, watching him, "That bad, huh?"

Greene glanced at him for a long quiet moment, before pulling away from the parking lot.

_You don't know the half of it_.

"A good friend of mine caught it," he said quietly, keeping his eye on the road, "Doctor Aarons, you remember."

"Hell yeah," Montes winced, "Very sorry about that. But you know. Some survive, right? I mean you know. Some survive."

"Some," Leland muttered, as he drove toward San Pedro.

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria

Africa

* * *

"Legolas?" Gimli stood up from his desk and answered his phone. Boromir watched him go, blearily. He had taken a break hours ago and occupied himself watching the semi-reformed ex-dwarf hacker at work. They were still tracking the numbers they pulled from YinYang's phone.

The ex-dwarf was speaking in bastardized elvish again, sounding intense. Knowing the dwarf, he'd hear about it eventually, so he kept his seat, and glanced almost absently at the computer screen.

Numbers, figures, letters that didn't make sense...

His eyes roved over the figures. Harding was right, most of the numbers used were used aggressively and then would suddenly cease contact, likely disposed of after a mission. He focused on the more sporadic numbers, and fell on one that seemed familiar, somehow.

He let the feeling drift from him. The number was used once, not too long ago. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. And then stopped cold.

His eyes sought the familiar number again. He read it aloud, to himself. And then heard Chandra Bouvier articulate those same numbers in his head. He glanced at the number he had hurriedly scrawled on his wrist.

_What the hell_...

The numbers matched.

Hindsight is 20/20 they say. There was Chandra in the dark, speaking to the locals secretly. Chandra who had worked independently and aggressively to find out where the disease was coming from. Chandra who had promised to arrange to call for help, and never got to. Her crime was buried under her passion for the work, buried beneath the chaos that surrounded them.

_But why_...? he wondered, thinking back to their conversation. She was a doctor, a healer, a passionate worker...

_"Ebola breakout in the 70's," she had said, "I was here during that debacle. Ten-day killer, 90 percent of the time. I burned corpses of many friends, though they looked like monsters and they felt like moldy jelly by then. They screamed and they cried and they shook and they bled. I promise you're going to be asking God 'Why.'"_

_Why...?_

He rechecked the number on his wrist, the phone number on the screen. He looked up and down, left to right along the length of the string of numbers. Eyes up to the screen, eyes down to his wrist, again, and again, always finding them the same.

"Gimli!" he called for his friend, "Gimli, damn it."

The dwarf muttered some words into his phone, before ending the call and stalking toward Borormir, "That call was very important," he growled, "Aragorn is--"

"I need you to do something," Boromir cut him off, tapping at the screen of Goran's computer, "Look at that number, and tell me that's not exactly the one on my wrist."

Gimli looked at him in annoyance and suspicion, but indulged him. "So they are the same. What of it?"

"This is Chandra Bouvier's number," Boromir breathed, "The woman doctor who was with me. She gave me her private number. It's the same number! That is her number!"

* * *

It did not take them long at all to surround him and badger him with questions.

"She gave you this number."

"Just before she left, almost two days ago," Brad replied, "I put her number on my wrist. And then as I looked over the screen that Agent Goran was looking at, I felt the number sounded familiar. I remember very well how it sounded like, because she said she'll say it once, and I had to pay attention. I did. And then I wrote it down."

"You couldn't have gotten it wrong?" Harding asked.

"A woman like that," Brad admitted, "Brains and beauty and she's older than you, she tells you to pay attention, you just do. And I wrote it down the moment she turned her back on me."

"Where did she say she was going?" asked Mike.

"Back to Kasensero," Brad replied.

"Could it have been a lie?" Harding asked.

"I did not feel that," Brad replied, "But she asked about the interrogation. I said I heard some equipment was salvaged from the suspect but people were unsure if they could get anything from them, as they were ruined."

"We have to go back to interrogation with this information," the FBI said.

"Send crews back to Kasensero," Mike added, "And send out a bulletin to keep an eye out for her on all major transport systems out of here. She could be out of the continent by now. Goddamn. Right beneath our noses."

"We had no reason to suspect her," Harding murmured, already thinking about how to approach YinYang with the new information.

"Why don't you just call her?" Jimmy Goran asked, suddenly, unexpectedly.

"What?" Mike asked. The rest of the occupants of the room were looking at him as if he were crazy.

Goran shrugged, looking embarrassed. "She has no reason to think she's caught, she is expecting toasted equipment and irrecoverable data from the suspect. And you know what else she's expecting? A call from a guy. You know. 'Beauty and brains?' She gives you her number, she knows you'll call."

Everyone looked at Brad Greer expectantly.

_Bait_.

To be continued...


	14. God's Art

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

13: God's Art

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia 

The United States of America

* * *

Elrohir could not have been more alarmed if his father had told him the world was coming to an end. He stepped out of the shower to find his mother missing.

"She went down to fetch us some food and beverages," his father told him distractedly. Already, the aggressive learner in Elrond was making time with his son's laptop.

"You could have waited for me," Elrohir muttered, hurriedly running a hand over his still-wet hair, as if ready to sprint down after her, "You could have asked what 'room service meant...'"

"Contrary to what you may want to believe," his father told him mildly, "We are profoundly adaptive people. You cannot survive centuries without being open to change. We know times are different. We are cautious."

"I know, I know," Elrohir sighed, "It's just that I can't trust anybody else. You know how mother smiles?"

Elrond looked up from the screen, and smiled indulgently himself, as if in remembrance of his wife.

"Yes, like that!" Elrohir exclaimed, "That beatific, slow smile? She stares at you and her eyes light up and then she smiles like you're the center of the world. It's unhealthy. I never thought I'd say this, but mother is a babe, and out here, many mortal, clueless, and profoundly out-classed louts are going to think she's flirting with them and giving them the time of day and... and it stresses me out! It's unhealthy."

"_Flir-ting_?" his father, apparently unfamiliar with the term.

"Mild seduction," Elrohir replied, quickly. He was getting used to the occasional need to explain things to his mother and father.

"Ah," Elrond breathed, giving it some thought, "Perhaps you should fetch her. But give her a few minutes, my son. She can fend for herself, and would be pleased to find you trust in the same."

"Hm," Elrohir frowned as he looked over at his father's work, and Elrond watched him from the corner of his eye, very much amused.

"Life is very funny," Elrond commented, "How a parent could simply find one day that things were the other way around."

Elrohir was unamused. "I don't know what you're talking about, A_da_. What are you doing over here?" The screen was occupied by a minimized Wikipedia article, a few more complex journal pieces, a microscopic photo, and the Help window.

"I called up images of the virus from the_ Inter-net," _Elrond replied, "These _micro-scop-ic_ images are not unlike those we have studied in Valinor, but we call it something else." He said something in Elvish that Elrohir had never heard of, some variation and combination of the words "sight" and "infinite."

"You've studied elven genetics?" Elrohir asked, before he had to clarify what "genetics" meant; again, the concept was familiar but the Valinor elves named it something else. As Elrond had told his son, technological development was not a one-way track with an Earthen monopoly. The elves have progressed themselves, and it shouldn't have been a surprise. They were always pushing further, working harder, to improve themselves.

"To see closer at the creation of the gods," Elrond replied, "We have looked upon the trees and the flowers and the animals. We've combined and melded them together, eliminated some traits, improved them. To look into ourselves as one amongst those creations is humbling. The perfection of creation, the thought that goes into each and every--" he said something that, in Elrohir's ears, sounded like a combination of the Elvish words for "fiber" and "being." He assumed it can be directly translated to "cells" or possibly "genes." It was odd to think about himself as being old-fashioned once he returns to Valinor and not knowing a thing.

"Some call it Science," Elrond finished, "I think it is God's Art."

Elrohir smiled tightly. He missed it, how his father spoke, the scholar in him. Elrond was more known as a warrior and a leader, but this was where his heart found joy and rest, in the pursuit of knowledge. Imladris' vast archives were proof of that, and healing was but a part of it.

"We know the Eleven component that keeps us from illness," Elrond said, "I am studying the make-up of this disease, in an effort to determine if we are indeed immune. I find I have reason to believe so. And from this conclusion... well, I cannot propose to introduce this '_gene_' to the human race, my son, but you play with it a little, and well.. you just might have a cure."

Elrohir's brows rose. "People have been trying to find one for decades, _ada_. They say that if they find the carrier of the disease, the being that can keep the virus alive but not be harmed by it, and use that being's immunity to bolster a man's, then you have your vaccine. Possibly a cure. But right now, the only thing even closely within the realm of hope is a vaccine. I can hardly imagine a cure..."

"Elves never came into their equation, my son," Elrond replied, "There is no harm in looking at possibilities."

"_Ada_," Elrohir asked, "Would injecting that immunity in the _edain_ suddenly find them not merely Ebola-free, but also free of other diseases?"

"They will likely find a rarity of viral illness in the future," Elrond replied.

"How about aging?" Elrohir asked.

"That trait stems from a different fiber," his father answered with a small smile, "They're not going to be surprised to be alive two hundred years from now if that is what you ask."

"I guess it is worth looking into," Elrohir conceded. Those were the most dangerous things; he had no intention of turning a group of sick men into elves, along with saving their lives. He wished it were selfishness, but it just felt plainly wrong.

_I'm not God..._

"Ah!" he remembered suddenly, "Mother," he said as he headed for the door.

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California

* * *

While the feds were mobilizing their resources to search the U.S. Ports, Greene and Montes decided the best of their contributions would be in local expertise, and decided to focus their efforts on looking for links to the terrorists, apart from the _Rosa Negra_.

"I mean a weapon's for something, right?" Montes had reasoned, "It's headed somewhere, it's not just going to stay in the frigging boat. And if that boat has been here since before the quarantine, the cache must have already been transferred."

Greene began to smile, for the first time since he was informed that his friend was ill. "Transportation," he breathed.

They had a copy of the photos of the _Rosa Rasa_ cache. They had several local truckers estimate the weight and space requirements of such a cargo.

"So there's no way anyone could have, say, grabbed a Sedan and loaded everything in the trunk and every other space?" Montes clarified.

"That's a huge load," their expert replied, "And if this guy was picking up something from the harbor, trying to stuff everything in your own car is going to look mighty suspicious."

"A pick-up?" Greene asked.

"Naw," replied the man, "You're going to need a truck, unless he made several trips..."

The two detectives decided to prioritize their efforts in assuming the terrorists had made just one trip, as there was no limiting factor if they followed the "several trips" theory. To assume just one trip, though, meant that they can create a minimum limit for investigating trucks... any form of transportation smaller than what could carry the cache in a signal trip will have to take the backseat of the investigation.

"That still leaves us with thousands of trucks in the immediate area alone," Montes murmured, "Sales, Rentals, company-owned, stolen..."

"But the quarantine gives us a time frame," Leland argued, "No other new deliveries are coming, this shortens the list dramatically. We give someone in the precinct a call and we can find out in two minutes if anything was stolen. We're left with Rentals and Owned trucks. Both of which have paper trails. Companies can even tell us from the get-go if a truck delivery did not occur according to plan; costs and time is properly monitored. This leaves us with having to personally interview just the people who personally own commercial-size trucks or those who rented them. This can be done."

And so they went. The list was trimmed to a respectable 100+ trucks. The two detectives took a coffee break in one of the few open waterfront shops, a cafe occupied by young, artsy types and a few other strays who couldn't find anywhere else to eat. He suspected the shop would have been more full, if not for the general sense of fear that was gripping the state. Some people, however, did move along the rest of life in an effort to retain normalcy.

Leland Greene liked the vibrant, free-spirited atmosphere. He and Rafe occupied a corner table, and loaded it with their papers, that they may enjoy the organic coffee and look over their work.

"What can I get you folks?" a young waitress asked them, coming up to their table. She had brilliant gray eyes beneath synthetic plastic red frames.

"Just two cups of your house blend, thanks," Greene replied with a smile, knowing they probably did not have the complications of his usual Starbucks fare.

"All right," she replied, glancing at the papers that crowded their table, "Anything else?"

"That's all," Leland replied.

"You write on the back of those papers?" she asked him, almost absently, as she found bare spots to put recycled brown-colored napkins.

"Excuse me?" Montes asked.

"I mean you sure use a lot," she commented, frowning.

"What?" Montes asked, looking at Greene for clarification.

"Paper," she said, "You should use the back."

"Weird," Montes murmured, as she walked away to make their requested drinks.

She came back after a few minutes, and glanced at Montes' tie. "Silk?"

"Good eye," he told her, warily.

"Organic," she commented, "And that's all right. But you know those poor silk worms work their asses off, and then they get boiled or gassed alive--"

"Rina!" a young man called from behind her, and he was apparently her boss, "Easy."

Leland turned to the young man who walked toward them cautiously. He was tall, had lean shoulders, sandy blond hair, a five o' clock shadow and and a long, poet's face. He had a gray "Darfur" shirt on in thin cottony material over acid-washed jeans.

"I'm very sorry... Detectives," he guessed, looking over at their work and likely seeing some logo or other of the department.

"She is very passionate," Greene murmured, as Rina threw them a final glare before walking out.

"We built this place to create awareness," the younger man replied with a smile that was half-wince, "We have very highly educated part-timers who believe that what we do here is beyond serving coffee. It's the promotion of a lifestyle. Everything you see is recycled, organic and sustainable. Ah..." he paused in thought, "We noticed an influx of cops and FBI here, the last few hours. Anything we should be worried about?"

News of the second ship hadn't been released to the public, Greene remembered.

"I think you are already worried about a fair number of things," Greene tried to joke, nodding at a few other new arrivals that Rina was lecturing.

"Aw, shit," the man muttered, "Excuse me," he said as he stalked toward the new commotion.

"I thought my job was hard," Montes commented.

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

An odd character flaw; he never acquired the habit of knocking before entering. He simply came up behind her and engulfed her frame in his arms. The action was completely territorial (both the sudden barge into her room and the embrace), and her lips curved to a smile as she felt his head lower to bury his face in her hair.

Elladan was quiet, as if he were robbed of words, and she felt his chest rise in a sigh, pressing against her back.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, tearing her eyes from the view of her bedroom window, disentangling herself from his arms with a measure of regret, as she turned to face him.

"You've heard of this outbreak in California," he answered tightly.

"I know," she replied, "My father will leave within the day to personally oversee the news back home. It is a very big story. Elrohir's flight must have been redirected, am I right?"

Elladan nodded, "He and my parents are safe. I'm worried for Aragorn and my sister."

Her brows shot up. "You don't say...?"

"He thinks he may have caught it," Elladan winced, "He told Legolas. The elf called the dwarf. The dwarf called everybody. He works in one of the quarantined hospitals."

"Oh..." she breathed, touching his face, "Elladan..."

"Damn it," he said quietly, "Will nothing go just plainly right?"

She shook her head, as if to shake away his doubts and his loneliness. She held his face in her hands. "No, I'm afraid not. Of you and your friends greater things have always been meant. But does it not also mean that you are best equipped to not merely survive, but to aid others?"

"I just want a peaceful life like everyone else's," Elladan said softly, searching her eyes. She met his lonely gaze squarely. Centuries of thought and wisdom were etched in them, she noted. Century after century of the things he's seen and lived.

She marveled then, at his heretofore under-recognized desperate yearning for normalcy. At the onset, it seemed to her that it was Elrohir who embraced the modern world more; him and his open attitude, his video game vices, his fast cars. Elladan was more standoffish, more reserved. She had once thought him aloof. He walked in an unearthly fashion, looked at things with an unearthly eye. It was as if he belonged elsewhere. But in his eyes this day, she noted his love of the world, his desire to be simply one within it. It was he who had hidden his ears, instead of flaunting them as Elrohir had. It was he who finally broke his isolation and sought out a wife, dreamed of making a family.

_Like everyone else_...

He gripped her arms like a lifeline. As if she was going to escape.

"I'm not going anywhere," she told him, a smile teasing her lips.

"This is the sort of thing that follows us around," he warned her, seriously.

"I know," she shrugged, "But I'm not going anywhere. You forget. I _found_ you. I _followed _you. I am one amongst those who sought to wreck your peace. I'm a disturbance, myself. Nothing can faze me."

"You're a hurricane," he added gravely, though his eyes were beginning to reclaim their light.

"I'm yours," she promised, pulling him towards her in a bargain-sealing kiss.

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya

Africa

* * *

Chandra Bouvier had lived in Africa long enough to know that change was coming with the very kiss of the winds. There was an energy in the air, cackling, teasing, laughing, mischief-making. The people walked a little bit faster, looked behind them a bit more than the usual.

She reveled in it, and occasionally reviled it. But in both cases, it made her feel alive. She was at the very heart of the world, here. Her home. Her heart. Her life.

The airports were busier than the usual, and she started seeing more stern faces that did not at all have the air of travel or leisure. They were closing in on someone, and that day, she knew they were closing in on her.

She asked the cab driver to turn around, away from the airport, and bring her back to the lodge from which she just came.

There was no escaping now, though some deluded days ago, she caught the thought that perhaps it was possible. No such luck, this time. No such luck. It was a good thing that by now, the fate of her mission was separate from the fate of her person. Herself she could loose, her mission she could not.

She mulled on her actions, during her ride. She mulled over a lot of things. She thought of her work. She thought about the peaceful retirement she could have chosen. She thought about that young South African who once owned her heart and whose offer of marriage she had declined. She thought about her youth. She though about Brad Greer and his rare but engaging smile. Mostly she thought about the land that spread out before her sight, as they drove past soil and sun.

Her cellphone rang. Her smile was feral when she saw that it was Brad Greer. He invited her out to lunch, they fixed their schedules, and she graciously accepted.

* * *

Kwisha Isle,

Lake Victoria

* * *

"Try not to underestimate her," YinYang told the Interpol Agent, "I did, and that was a mistake."

"Chandra Bouvier," Harding said.

"Mmhm," affirmed the other, "I heard people talking, around. I guess that's why everyone's moving faster, and you're not giving me better offers. You have somebody else."

"Any regrets?" Harding asked.

"No," came the simple reply, "You'll come back to me. I guarantee you she will be much harder to break."

"Why is that?"

YinYang shrugged. "She's like you."

"What's that?"

"She's _very_ sure."

Harding snorted. "But as you said, so am I. How did you come to work together?"

"She called me," he replied, "That's how most people find me, if they know how to look. Or in her case, good at looking."

Harding accepted the slight on their intelligence department with a slight grin.

"She called me by my real name," he said, "I didn't expect that."

Harding's brows rose.

"I wanted to kill her," he laughed, "I was angered by her nerve, but also intrigued. She saved me from the decision by offering me a job. The story of my life."

"Is she a lone wolf?" Harding asked, referring to a terrorist who worked alone.

"She would seem so, eh?" YinYang replied, "But I do not doubt she found others like herself. Her plan was all but complete by the time I entered the picture. I was the last link in the chain and, unless I miss my guess, the only one she had to pay."

"What do you mean?" Harding asked.

YinYang stared at him for a long moment. "I just had to set that thing on a boat and push it off. It was headed somewhere, and you just have to assume someone's there to receive it, eh?"

"Why did you think she didn't have to pay off the others?"

"I'm the only money you followed," YinYang replied, "And it's a Cause, you know? One of those things. These extremists just end up finding each other."

Harding's brows furrowed. "Extremists of what?"

"She sure tried to convince me," YinYang admitted, ignoring his question, "Up to now I'm unsure that she's wrong. But I tried to do what she needed, because she might be right and because she paid me to." He paused, "Hey. Aren't you going after her? Everyone else seems to be leaving."

"I need to make sure there's nothing more you want to tell me," Harding said, "We have someone else now. This is your last chance. The bargain will hold, but I need you to tell me what I need to know."

"You'll come back to me," YinYag said, in an almost singsong way, "I'm more pliable."

"This is your last shot," Harding repeated.

"I'll take my chances."

An aide of Harding's knocked on the door and gave him a thick, boxy package wordlessly. It was express mail from Italy, from old friends.

He clutched at it tightly, knew by the feel of the protective cushions that inside, he will likely find the "truth serum" he had requested for, just days ago.

_Everyone is leaving_, he thought, looking at YinYang wistfully.

He sat across from YinYang.

"You were just leaving," the younger man said to him, hesitantly, catching the glint in the other's steely eyes.

"I think I'll stay a little bit longer."

To be continued...


	15. You Will Ask God Why

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

14: You Will Ask God Why

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya 

Africa

* * *

There was a macabre cheer about the scene Brad Greer found before him. It was about as cheerful as a last supper; scandalously indulgent, with the bitter aftertaste of finality. Chandra, after all, was never anyone's fool.

The eating hall was empty, save for the table she occupied. Beautiful room, made of old wood and surrounded by glass windows overlooking the safari. She occupied a long table, dining on what looked to be the rarest, most expensive things on the menu (if not, he suspected, the whole thing). Three open bottles of wine, and two were very nearly empty.

She did not rise to greet him, but she flashed him a mildly inebriated smile, offered him the seat across from her own.

"I took the liberty of ordering for us," she said, in that beautiful accent of hers. Her shoulders looked lighter, her eyes looked afire, "I suspect it will be our watchers to pay."

He frowned, though he was unsurprised by her knowledge of why he came to be here. He sat in front of her cautiously.

"They are watching, aren't they?" she asked, peering closely at him, "Likely listening in too."

He thought of lying to her. But if one needed to hear the truth, one had to be willing to give it. Boromir was never much for pretension, or mincing words.

"And yet you came," he told her, softly.

"I had no choice," she replied, "I am stuck here. I could feel everybody coming. Africa told me. She told on the lot of you, as she told me many things before. I was so sure. I saw the men with the stern eyes in the airport, I saw the people leave my hotel in an effort to be discreet. The sun and the sky are my eyes. There was no hiding from me."

"Playing God," Brad said, "You see everything, you know everything. You have the power to give life and take it. But I know what you are. You are a killer."

"I am practical," she snapped.

"Madwoman," he added.

"Visionary," she countered, "Is this the best you can do?"

"Why?" he asked, "What made it seem right, suddenly, to do what it is you're trying to do? You're a _doctor, _you know what that shit does. You know better than _anybody. _You_ burned corpses of many friends, though they looked like monsters _by then_. They screamed and they cried and they shook and they bled? _You cannot know this and do what you're trying to do. You promised me, if I were in your shoes then, I would be asking God 'Why.' There are horrors in the world, and then there are horrible people. And now I find I can only question _you_. Why, Chandra?"

"I'm almost tempted not to answer that," she replied, "Are we being recorded?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Ah, good," she said, "Almost like a _pronunciamento_ then. Perfect. I did not, in this occasion, have the time or heart to write one after all." She gulped down her wine, and poured her glass with liquid from the final bottle.

"You look betrayed and surprised," she commented, "I am almost touched."

"I could not believe it was you," he admitted, "I knew few others in the world with such a great respect for life."

She found his statement funny. "It still holds true. But you see, the life you describe is symptomatic of the self-absorbed sentiments of this world. Life equals human life. That is all."

"What is this," he scoffed, "Are you an extreme tree-hugger?"

"Think about it," she said, taking no offense, "There is an almost poetic justice to it, Ebola. Some have claimed that these organisms are one amongst the truest, oldest inhabitants of the Earth. No one knew how they came to be, or from where. They simply…_are_. These organisms are some of the aged land's grandest mysteries, and also some of its most vicious killers. Predators of the best kind— many, certainly, have died of catching them. Or perhaps… these organisms- these viruses- aren't illnesses one catches, like the common cold. To catch such things gave the impression of one's greater-ness, as if one were stronger, as if one stood a chance. No… these viruses caught _you_. Killed _you_. _Devoured _you.

"Darwin once said that in this world, the fittest survived," she continued, "These killers hunt so well, they can devour humanity. A fitting reminder of our proper place in this world, my friend. Because men have been forgetting and forgetting that, like everything else here, we are at the mercy of the world. The Earth should not be just some cause, you know. It can't be emblazoned on a t-shirt or be some celebrity project, as if it were a needy, hungry child someone has to champion. She is a goddess, and she punishes wayward stewards."

"There are other ways--" he argued.

"Truly?" she snapped, "You believe that? Let me tell you something, Greer. Do you want me to write a Senator a fucking letter? Should I make a petition? Should I create a foundation? Should I make a film? Have we a track record of success here that I don't know about? You don't know what to say because you're not stupid, you know where I'm coming from.

"I'll tell you why none of that has worked," she said, "It's because we are a world focused on growth, like a tumor. More, more, more. The economy cannot support an environmental movement. The only green it knows is money and envy. Ask every single company, and they will tell you yearly that the objective is growth. This is common sense. It is not good business to stagnate or decrease. No matter which way you flip it around, everybody trying to grow is everybody eating up natural resources and ultimately creating more waste. Even if companies went environmental in their processes, they won't be telling you they're cutting back or holding back on their targets. Never, are they idiots? It's all about growth. It makes sense and it also makes sense to believe we are slowly killing ourselves.

"You know why else it won't work?" she asked, "Because being environmentally friendly is more expensive a lot of times, than chugging on the way we've always been. You can also look at economies of scale, Greer. Making more spreads fixed costs, resulting in cheaper products on a per-unit basis. More waste, but who cares? More affordable. We have to protect the goddamn bottom-lines, eh?

"We are a society of waste," she said, "You know many food companies dispose of or destroy excess production and aging stock? They seldom give it to charity or re-sell at much cheaper prices for the needy. That's because to do so decreases their sales opportunities. And if they did and something went wrong because the stocks are old, they can get sued for their charity. That is the kind of world we live in."

She took a deep breath, watched his face, "You know what else? You can look at the list of the world's largest polluters and find many super powers. The same way you look at companies who pollute the Earth, and you might see the strongest arms of the economy, not to mention a couple of political campaign contributors."

"They would never have listened to me," she finished, "They would never have listened to anybody."

"But to kill innocent people...?" he asked.

"This is a war," she replied, downing her glass of wine again, "There will be casualties. It is not hard to believe that. As a matter of fact, initially I was quite peeved over our fisher-friends who ruined the delivery of the _Rosa Rasa_. And then I figured the world was making men's natures more pronounced to me again. It is their selfishness that brought their ruin. I found it just. I found it oddly appropriate."

"There is another one," Brad said, "We need to know where it is."

"I am not telling you," she tsk-ed at him, "Come on, Brad. You've heard what I had to say, and all you can do is point out the innocence of men and simply ask me?"

"It feels fundamentally wrong," he said, "You are insane not to know that."

She shrugged, "The plan originally did not include mass infection. I was considering ransoming out a few cities, give our demands for reduction in exchange for the bomb sites. But I figured the death rate of Ebola will get me a reduction in consumption much more aggressively, and definitively."

Her logic was cold, and carefully calculated. Her eyes were beginning to show the defiant defensiveness of a vilified figure, clinging to her convictions because she had nothing else.

"I did tell you before, I found our punishment for infringing on the Earth as kind," she drawled, filling her glass again.

Thoughtfully, almost absently, he reached for her glass, as if desperately seeking the alcoholic spirit himself.

Her fingers closed tightly about his wrist, as if to stop him. From beneath his own fingers, he could feel the pulse from her wrist racing, racing, racing to the end of the line.

"I really wouldn't drink that," she told him softly.

He tilted his head and peered closer at her face, searching...

"You look at me like that," she breathed, "And you almost make me wish I were someone else."

She gave him a small smile, before her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed before him, limbless, lifeless, selfishly keeping all the information she had to herself, to the death.

* * *

Kwisha Isle,

Lake Victoria

* * *

News of Chandra Bouvier's actions reached far and wide. She was well-known and well-liked, though she gave little indication of liking others apart from civilly dealing with them (and occasionally, not so civilly). An honest worker, they said, more than a little bit grim, but very determined. She came from an affluent family, where she got the money to travel the world and get her education. It was also what allowed her to do the work she did well, unconcerned for monetary returns as she was.

She loved the Earth and apparently also had some hate for it. Her feelings were always hot or cold, never anything less passionate in between. Interpol and the FBI dove into her homes in Africa, investigated the meager belongings she'd leave in her work lockers, inspected her neglected family properties she inherited in France. They sought for any clue they could possibly find on the crime she had committed, any contact she may have had, as she slipped into a coma from the poison she had heartily ingested.

This was an entirely separate world from that of Horace Harding's. Focused, quiet, he stared at the young criminal seated before him.

And then he got up from his seat, leaned on the wall where the light switch was, and 'accidentally' turned off the lights, engulfing the room in darkness.

In a flash of movement, he drew out the syringe from his Italian package, stuck it and pressed it to any part of the suspect that he could find, and then turned the lights on again.

"Sorry!" Harding said out loud, to appease the technician who was videotaping the whole interrogation, "I had a hard time finding that goddamn switch."

YinYang was looking at him with a sly, dry smile, as he rubbed at the side of his neck where the serum had been injected. He actually looked impressed. "You play dirty."

Harding blinked at him, and kept his stern expression.

"So what was it?" YinYang asked, "What the hell was it?"

Harding watched him carefully, wondered if the serum was already taking effect. The first and last time he had 'interrogated' someone with the serum, he was talking to an uncharacteristically candid Legolas Greenleaf.

"Are you feeling a stronger inclination to talk?" he asked.

"No," YinYang replied, surprising himself at the straightforward answer, "I can't believe I said that. I can't believe I said _that_. Holy--I should get me one of these!"

"Not that you'd have much use for it in prison," Harding said.

"You're right," YinYang agreed, steadily growing more dismayed with his mouth, "Damn."

"So how did you get into this ungodly mess?" Harding asked.

"I was eleven and we didn't have any money--"

"The Ebola," Harding clarified, "I don't have the time to talk about the rest of your life."

"That's very insensitive of you," YinYang drawled, "I was opening up..."

"Where's the _Rosa Negra_ going?" Harding asked the most pressing matter.

"Nowhere," YinYang replied, "It's been there awhile now, by now..."

"Where?"

"Pretty, sunny California."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Once their efforts were concentrated on one place following the information Interpol forwarded, it did not take them long at all to find the _Rosa Negra._

They stormed the docks in their dark suits, gas masks and bullet-proof vests, guns un-holstered and ready to fire. Their quiet feet made steady, subtle beats on the harbor planks, as the small ship lorded over a lone, neglected area of the dock.

With extreme caution, unquestionable force and meticulous skill, they boarded the ship. And opened the storage. And found a loud, yawning, nothing or nobody.

* * *

The two detectives, along with a sizable bunch of colleagues, had taken over a motel in San Pedro. They occupied the rooms in pairs, and commandeered the in-house recreation room as their conference hall. The Captain was presiding over a briefing at the center of the bleak room, as his men surrounded him, sitting squished on sofas or on the battered carpet.

"This is what the feds have so far," he said, "They had a breakthrough in Africa. Their suspect talked, and they salvaged a few things from his equipment. The main perp of this whole thing is a French expat named Chandra Bouvier. She used her retirement dough and her dead family's money to spread this Ebola shit around. She's a local affiliate of the CDC in Africa, she worked with Ebola before, we suspect she got her samples from unreported cases there, and had them engineered or did it herself. Bioterrorism experts say the principles are basic for anyone who knows what they are doing, and the materials needed are available online. We're not sure. She tried to kill herself and I think in a few hours she's going to succeed. She's eyeball-deep in a coma.

"Her cause is environmental," he continued, "So we gotta get our info on local extremists, or pro's she could have hired here. The feds also found that second ship on the LA Harbor. Thing is, it's empty. They're occupying themselves going over storage houses, surveillance and paperwork and dusting the thing for prints. CDC doubts they'll find prints from the area though, 'cos whoever was hired to handle the material would have been in protective gear, assuming they knew what it was.

"Now," he sighed, "We gotta pour everything we have into this, guys. This shit is coming into our homes. We're spread thin even with everything the government's giving us. The Governor's going to make an announcement in a few minutes. Schools, businesses and other public areas that haven't closed yet are to be closed down until further notice. Everyone and everything is subject to search without warrant. Everyone is expected to stay at home. Prices of food and water and other emergency items are being frozen, even if we can expect demand to rise as people start to hoard before everything closes. We have our auxiliary forces keeping peace and order, we have officers on the water supplies, monuments and other possible target areas. And then we have you. We need leads. This is our backyard, gentlemen. This is House."

A detective raised his hand. "We can access bank records and check any unusual money movement from the usual suspects, mercs she could have paid off."

"That won't fly this time," someone else argued, "The money movements are going to be unusual all around."

"We're at the brink of a disaster," Greene agreed, "People are going to be withdrawing everything they have before that. Or trying, at least. Bank run. Everything will not be moving in a normal fashion."

"Greene and I are pursuing a lead," Montes shared, "Whoever is behind this must have needed transportation to get that crap out of the ship. If it's the size we think it is, we narrowed transportation down to a minimum truck size. No thefts of a vehicle that kind in the last few months, so the truck couldn't have been stolen. Checked Rentals too, and found verifiable house movements, rock concerts and things like that. Checked recently purchased and company-owned delivery trucks and didn't see any exception reports of deliveries or expenses that are uncommon, indicating that, say, their driver took their truck out on an unofficial ride or something like that."

"Suggesting what?" the Captain asked, rubbing his chin in thought.

"People are lying to us," Greene replied, "Or their people are lying to them. We cannot assume this and realistically act on it, however. We can't check and double check everything, we don't have the time or the manpower. Another conclusion we can draw is that whoever picked up the cache made several trips. Also an option we cannot realistically act upon, as we suddenly have to investigate thousands of car sizes and where these could be found. What we can do is narrow down who to re-check by crossing the potential suspects with access to a vehicle of the size-range that we seek. A member of an environmental extremist group who moonlights as truck driver for a company can be a suspect, or a known-mercenary with a record. We have a motive now, we can do this."

Montes rolled his eyes. The line sounded too familiar. Greene thought _everything_ can be done.

* * *

The medicines were strong, and they made her feel heavy, and _absent_. She did not feel as if she was fully there. She felt as if she were already half-dead...

_Not a good feeling_, Julianna decided.

She raised up her arms. They felt heavy, almost unbearably heavy. They were also horribly bruised, and tubes and wires were on every conceivable part they could think to put them in. She blinked herself to greater awareness.

The room she was in remained unchanged, mostly. It was a long room lined by beds and intensive care equipment on one side, and a row of glass on the other side. It was heavily tinted, such that she could look at it and see only a reflection of her drawn face. The only occupants of the room when she had fallen asleep hours ago were herself, and that poor child. This time though, there was a fresh occupant.

Adrian Aarons was sitting by Tessa Bosco's bed, holding the little girl's hand almost casually, his other hand wriggling to flip the pages of a Cosmo Girl issue that he was reading with a measure of intensity.

She found it odd, and she chuckled, catching his attention.

He released Tessa's hand, and left his magazine on the seat as he stood up and walked toward her. He was not wearing a hospital gown, she noted, and wondered what he was doing here without that scary blue suit people wore anytime they went inside. He was donned in the light pants of surgical scrubs beneath a deep blue robe. He looked oddly costumed, as if he just needed a crown.

"Hello," he smiled down at her. She thought it was blinding and beautiful, and he had to put reins on that thing.

She pushed up her elbows to sit up, and he fluffed at the pillows behind her to make her more comfortable as she leaned back and looked at him.

"You caught it," she said flatly, "Didn't you?"

He shrugged, smiled sheepishly at her. "Unfortunately."

"From me?" she asked.

He shook his head, "No."

_But does it really matter_? His lonely eyes seemed to ask, they were all victims here.

"Were you reading aloud to her?" Julianna wrinkled her nose at him, reclaiming her humor, "That's Cosmo Girl. Her mom would not have been very pleased with you."

"I was reading for my own enrichment," he laughed, "In an effort to understand the evil workings of the female mind."

"Evil?" she laughed, "You did not look as if you thought so, out there."

He actually flushed, lightly, tastefully.

She snorted at him, frowning when she jostled one of the tubes on her nose.

"Ha!" he exclaimed at her triumphantly, as his adroit doctor's hands re-set them properly, "No more snorting for you."

She shook her head at him in amusement and dismay. "So how are you?"

"I'm all right," he said, stretching his arms over his head, "The fever has not kicked in yet. I'm just a bit sore. How are you?"

"You tell me," she said.

He looked at her thoughtfully, before glancing at the readings on the machines around her. "You're holding it steady. Some bleeding inside, I'd say, but the thickeners have an obvious effect. The fever I wish we could remedy more. If it goes higher, and I suspect it will, we're hitting the ice baths, I'm sorry to say. On the brighter side, at this moment, you are not in pain, right?"

"No," she realized, "It's a weird feeling. You guys tanked me out on drugs."

"It will have to be like that for awhile," he admitted, "until you get better. We can just fight to make you comfortable."

"I..." she hesitated. She glanced at the glass, and looked back at the half-person version of herself. Not that she had already lost weight, thought she did already look more gaunt. It was the gaze of her dull, drugged eyes, the grayish pall of her skin, her dry, slightly bleeding lips. She looked half-there.

"You think you can take it down a notch?" she asked, "If only for a little while?"

"Julianna," he said, "It will hurt, I tell you now."

"I know," she replied, "Only just a little while, please? I feel like I'm not here anymore. I... I didn't get to say goodbye to my husband, my kids. I want to write something down. They need to know how to smack the washing machine to make it work, they need to know where everything is."

_They need to know I love them_...

"I'm not one of those Oprah moms," she continued, "I don't make great letters that make people cry, I don't give out pretty advice they can pass on to their children, you know? But I... I just have to do something."

"Julianna..." he couldn't tell her not to make any contingency plans. It would have been a brave and crazy lie, to tell her he was certain she would be fine. She could read his eyes.

"It would be a shame," she said, "If I left without saying goodbye."

He had an odd look in his eye, and he glanced out to the glass she was looking at, as if he ached to see something (_or someone?_, she guessed from beyond it.

They were both saddened to find nothing but heir own fading reflections, looking back at them.

* * *

Arianne wondered where Adrian was.

Mikey Montes was gravitating to her, clutching her hand tightly, in want of his own mother. No one would tell either of them where Adrian Aarons or Julianna Montes were. They were giving the two of them the same, vague answers. She wondered if the two of them were sharing the same dire situation.

Mikey held her hand tighter, and she clutched back with all her might.

To be continued...


	16. Cure

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

* * *

15: Cure

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria

Africa

* * *

"Is there anything we can do?" Gimli asked his partner, sitting across from him and eating dinner. Haldir's mouth was full, he'd forgotten he was hungry until he saw the worried Gimli's untouched plate.

Haldir shook his head as he chewed through his food, "There really isn't. There's no cure but time."

Gimli rubbed his face, "I don't appreciate that at all."

"I know," Haldir said, after a moment, "It's odd, isn't it? It's a feeling one gets an awful lot in this age and time, that sometimes you just have to step back, as there really isn't any choice but to do so. You've seen that movie. Something about someone's problems amounting to a hill of beans..."

"But it's _Aragorn_," Gimli said, emphatically, "There shouldn't just be waiting, here. This cannot be his time."

"Then if that were the case it wouldn't be," said Haldir with conviction.

Gimli frowned, "Are you telling me to relax?"

"Hell no," Haldir replied wryly, "I'm not suicidal."

"Speaking of suicide," Gimli muttered, "Did that bitch die?"

"Not yet," Haldir said, "But she's never waking up, know that much. Boromir's there. God knows why."

"Is it so surprising to find a man who once thought himself a sinner to wish others similarly misled to see the light that he had?" Gimli asked, "I think not."

"Misled?"

"She thought she was doing the right thing," replied the ex-dwarf, "I think that is the saddest thing about this whole situation. Where do those types go, you think? Heaven? Hell? I mean, she made informed decisions. She educated herself carefully, she weighed her options. Her cause was well-intentioned. Where does she go when she dies?"

"Maybe she'll come back, like we all did," Haldir said, beginning the idea as a joke before it slowly horrified him.

"Scary thought," Gimli read his eyes, "So what do we do now?"

"We're going home for awhile," Haldir replied, "Reports, R&R. They owe us weeks. We've done all we can for this case. California is all YinYang can tell us. I know for a certainty that is all that he knows. Bouvier kept her secrets well. All he had to do was get the boats to where they were headed, and tell her when. Everything else was up to her."

"You gave him that serum, I could tell," said Gimli, "Many suspect something, actually, but I doubt anyone will ask you anything."

"I was counting on that," Haldir admitted.

"You think..." Gimli hesitated, "Any way you think you can get me inside Los Angeles, even with the quarantine? Pull some strings, whatever? I mean we're getting R&R time anyway, I might as well see how everyone's doing."

"I can't pull strings and get you there if it's not work-related," Haldir replied, "And if it's work-related that means I have to go with you."

"I know."

_Would you?_

The ex-dwarf looked at him expectantly. Whenever he wanted, that tough exterior could just crumble before one's eyes. It was a talent. It was a trap. He had mournful eyes.

"Damn it," Haldir muttered, "Fine."

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California, The United States of America

* * *

They went back to that coffee shop with the sassy environmentalist waitress.

Montes joked that if he could arrest anyone for suspicion of violence relating to protecting the Earth, it would be her. Greene thought that the manager would be able to tell them about the crowds that visited there.

Like everything in the state after the governor's announcement, it was closed. But there was a residence on the second floor, and the detectives counted on the owner living right there.

The two detectives rapped smartly on the back door.

"Who is it?"came the familiar voice of the overburdened manager they had met days before, after a few minutes of waiting.

"Detectives Montes and Greene from the LAPD," Montes replied, "We've met before, open up."

"No shit?" he opened the door a crack and peered at them. Recognition dawned in his eyes. "Oh." He opened the door wider, but did not yet invite them inside. "What can I do for you folks?"

"We need some information," Leland replied, "May we come in?"

"Do I have a choice?" he asked wryly, opening the door wide and leading them inside. He closed the door behind them and locked it.

"He demands so politely, eh?" Montes asked, "I'm Montes, he's Greene. What's your name, kid?"

"Chris," he replied as he walked them toward the cafe, "I'm half-Greek, I have a long last name. I can just write it down for you later."

The three men sat around a small coffee table.

"So what's up?" Chris asked them, half-nervously, half-earnestly, "Anything i should be scared about?"

Montes smirked. "How do I put this..."

"Much of the information we will share with you is being kept from the public," said Greene, "After you hear it, you will understand why, and hopefully, understand why we need your cooperation."

"What do you know about this Ebola outbreak?" Montes asked him.

"Well I know the state's pretty much closed," replied Chris, "Just stuff on the news. I heard about several hospitals closing down, I heard they basically have the sick people contained but they have to be cautious. I heard the Governor say people should just stay at home, until they can determine where the disease is coming from."

"Chris," Leland began, looking him straight in the eye, "We need you to keep whatever you hear from us just between us, all right?"

"Of course, detective," the younger man replied.

"It was determined that the outbreak was artificially created," Greene told him, "Someone is intentionally making people sick. The main perpetrator is in a coma, and as she was trying to kill herself, she said no other vital information but the reason for her actions. She was looking to protect the environment by eliminating its greatest parasites, eh? Now we are looking for a shipment of biological weapons that she had sent to the LA Harbor. We found the boat, but it was empty."

"Are you thinking I'm a suspect?" Chris asked, aghast.

"Should we?" Montes countered.

"No!" Chris replied, "I mean, hell no! I'm just an honest businessman, trying to make some sort of a difference in the world. Not doing very well at either, unfortunately."

"Does this sound like anything any employee or associate of yours could do?" Greene asked.

"Yes, of course," Chris replied, "People are angry, they are always talking about making a greater impact on the world. I've never heard of this as a solution, though. I mean we're passionate as hell but we're not crazy."

"You have a business," Montes said, "Any chance you got a truck, for deliveries, pick-ups, things like that?"

He knew the answer already of course, as nothing from the DMV had registered under this business name.

"Not yet," Chris replied, "Trying. But as I said, I'm not doing so great with the business."

"We're going to need a contact list of all your employees," Greene told him, "And any other customers you may have. If you have a mailing list, regulars who share your passion, a fishbowl of calling cards--"

"No such thing," Chris said quickly, "Calling cards are a waste of paper."

Greene sighed, "Any contact details you have would be appreciated."

They stayed a few minutes more, as Chris gathered his contact lists. He did not offer them coffee, citing a shortage because of the state's lockdown.

Soon, the three men walked past the kitchen and toward the back door. Chris unhooked and fiddled with a series of locks.

"Some would say I'm paranoid," he explained with a chuckle, "But I'm sure you know better than anyone that there are a lot of crazies out there."

As he took care of the intricate locks, Greene and Montes waited patiently, looking about the neat back-kitchen of the coffee shop. Greene's eyes narrowed at the wall on the far end of the room. He focused on a wooden wall hanger lined with hooks. Key chains hung on them liberally. He walked forward for a closer look.

Keys to a Sedan, likely Chris'. Smaller keys, probably to the register, the lockers, the cabinets and probably to the many locks on that infernal door. One left. It looked old, and weathered.

"Detective?" Chris called, from behind them. The sudden influx of the wind indicated that he finally managed to open the door.

Greene drew out his pen from his pocket, and slid the tip inside the loop of the key chain, sliding the key off the hook, and raising it toward Chris.

"What is this key for?" he asked.

Chris chewed at the insides of his cheeks, hesitating.

"You said you had no fucking trucks!" Montes hissed at him, grabbing him by the arm and shaking him slightly, pressing him to answer.

"None that I own!" Chris said, quickly, his face reddening, "I mean, I kind of borrow it, from a friend."

"Define," Greene told him coldly, stepping toward them with glacial menace.

_He demands so politely_...

"One of my c-customers," Chris stuttered, "He gets free stuff, you know, I mean I don't have any money, I already said that. His dad left him a repair shop when the old man died. He delivers the goods when they're fixed up. But he ah... lends them to me first, once in awhile. Not too often, we're a small shop, we don't need to pick up a lot of stock, and just whatever he has around. Sometimes a truck, sometimes a pick-up..."

"Repair shop," Montes hissed, "It fits."

"No one would have noticed a truck was missing or off-schedule if it's logged in for repairs," Greene murmured in agreement, "No one would have noticed if it was used for a different purpose, as long as they refill the gas."

"Is your friend by any chance a tree-hugger like you?" Montes asked, bluntly.

"I resent the term," Chris snapped, before he frowned, "Yeah, so?"

"We need that name and address," Montes said.

* * *

Greene drove like a maniac.

"Jeez!" Montes exclaimed, pressing one to the dashboard for balance, his other hand held his cellular phone to his ear, "Sorry boss, yeah Green'es driving...It fits... Yeah...We gotta go check out all these repair shops, Captain! There's tons of trucks here, there's gotta be tens of shops. Greene and I got one-- Shit!"

Greene braked to a sudden stop.

"What the fuck, man?" Montes demanded.

Greene shook his head at his partner, distractedly. He was looking at the sight that unfolded before them. He got them to the repair shop in record time, all right. The question was if he got them there on time.

There was already an ambulance and a couple of police cars outsside.

* * *

Atlanta,

Georgia

* * *

"I need your thoughts," Elrohir said over the phone, quietly, to his brother.

"All right," came the cautious reply.

"_Ada _thinks he can produce a cure."

A long, breathless pause.

"Good god," Elladan muttered.

"I know," Elrohir said, "It's crazy. The theory seems sound from my eye, but I'm hardly an expert. And..." he hesitated, "It involves us sharing some of our elven little pieces into the human race if you know what I mean."

"We're not God, brother," Elladan breathed, "We cannot play those games. Not to mention I have no idea how to get such a cure out there without explaining where it's from and how we came about it. I mean I'm sure it can work, this is _Ada. _But I can't see how..."

"But we can't just sit on it either and know what it can do and not share it," Elrohir said, "As you said, we are not God, who knows and watches. Can you sit on this, knowing what it is?"

"But where will it end, Elrohir?" Elladan asked, "Where shall we go next? Curing cancer? AIDS? The common cold? Death...?"

"But it's..." said Elrohir, "It's Aragorn. And our sister – if it is indeed her, is also in danger out there."

Elrohir listened to his brother breathe a sigh.

"We should test it," Elrohir said, "Maybe it won't work. Maybe I'm worrying for nothing."

"Test it on what?" Elladan muttered, "You know how hard it is to even get inside California? You're never going to get a sample."

Elrohir mulled it over. "I'll... I'll call you back."

* * *

Kwisha Isle, Lake Victoria

Africa

* * *

Gimli trusted the elves explicitly. From once having been raised to hate them, he had more than a lifetime of experience to change his mind. His best friend was an elf. His partner was an elf. _Heck, the love of his dreamgirl was an elf..._

If they think they can make something work, he did not doubt it.

Elrohir had called him, saying he thought they had a cure for the terrible disease that one of his greatest friends had caught. He said they needed to test it, and he needed to know if Jimmy Goran, with all of his current legitimate and former illegitimate connections, could procure it for them.

"I just want to know if it's possible," the elf had said, "And then I'm calling up Brad and the Rigares to see if we can work on mass production and distribution. I didn't count on a CDC sample, they're intense about containment..."

"I can get it for you," Gimli found himself saying. He heard the tone of his voice, wondered how he made it sound so easy, even as his heart was pounding.

It was pounding because he knew there was only one way to get a sample. Everyone getting out of the island went through decontamination. He couldn't sneak a test tube (they were carefully searched), or forge some papers and get clearance (the samples were insanely heavily guarded), or even stain his shirt with someone's blood or something as reckless as that, and expect it to withstand the disinfectant.

_There's only one way_.

He told Haldir they ought to pass by Atlanta on their way to L.A. The elves think they have a cure, and he might as well say hello to the Peredhils, since it was on the way anyway.

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Anatalia Craxi found it highly unfortunate that she had acquired one of the Fellowship's least desirable traits: she did not trust that those she loved could take care of themselves the moment they got out of her sight.

Elladan had left for the United States barely an hour past. He called his travel broker and demanded in that undeniable elven way, the most immediate flight he could take to Atlanta. He arranged for two, expecting her to join him. She declined. He was surprised, but let it go in his haste. Gandalf offered to join him instead.

She remained here, with her own problems.

Still, she thought about him now, as she packed her bags to return to Italy with her mother. All wedding arrangements have been put on hold, there was no questioning that. Her father had gone back to their offices to oversee the outbreak coverage, and her fiancée had flown away to the U.S. to... do whatever it was a hero does, she guessed, to either make the situation better or, in rare cases, as she had kidded him he might, make things worse. Not to mention a good friend of the family was struck with Ebola. And that a long-lost potential sister-in-law was also in danger.

She rubbed at her stomach, absently, before remembering with some trepidation that her 'grandmother-in-law' had placed her warm, graceful hand there just days ago.

_Maybe I shouldn't bother to go to my doctor in Italy_, she thought, _and just ask Galadriel_...

Of course they were intimate. She's over thirty (and trying to forget the exact number), and he was, he kidded, thirty-thousand (and trying to remember the exact number). They were going to get married. They were bound to have a family.

She just didn't expect it to start this soon and she knew, neither did he. So maybe she was wrong. Maybe. But she has been feeling ill and uncomfortable. And irate. And his forward-looking grandmother just touched her where a child would make a home of a mother for nine months and all these all together couldn't just be _nothing_.

She was nervous.

Elrohir's jokes about alien babies were not comforting. She must have snapped at him. He must have found it funny.

But she was also wildly excited. The baby names topic was both embarrassing and enjoyable for her. She imagined a little version of Elladan (sans the ears, of course) running around Imladris. She imagined the vision could also resemble a little version of _Elrohir_, albeit would be _marauding over _the _ruins_ of Imladris instead. It did not seem very bad either way at all. She did not even mind having two right away...

She shook her head. Maybe she was just getting the flu. Maybe she was just stressed out about getting married... _Maybe_...

_Damn_, but she just wanted to find out.

"Ana?" her mother called, from the door.

"I'm coming," she said with a smile.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Adrian's head was _killing _him.

It might have been the hunger; he'd completely lost his appetite, and he had forgotten the last meal he ate. It might have been because the standard painkillers he got for himself were too inadequate now, given the ravage of the disease that was spreading inside his body.

He sat on the hospital bed. It wasn't _his_ bed, not yet. No wires or tubes or hooks attached him to it, _not yet. _It was just a place to sit, and think. He had drawn the retractable dining tray over his legs as a desk, and drummed his fingers impatiently against the pen and paper on it's surface.

He closed his eyes in distracted thought. On the bed parallel to his, Julianna Montes was writing down her thoughts aggressively. He had looked over her shoulders a little bit. Her handwriting was appallingly bad, and her strokes were bold and hard, leaving marks to the back of the sheet. She was a strong woman, he knew, passionate. Those who loved her would love the hardship of reading that terrible handwriting in a letter written out of love.

_I should write something_, he thought then. It seemed more... fair, to do so. Adrian had asked that tired young intern for some sheets of bond paper and had been given a bloody ream by the remorseful young man. He certainly had enough paper, that's for sure. He had some inclination, but he certainly had very little time.

They'd tank him on drugs soon. Drugs to take away his pain and fight his fever and keep him alive. But it would rob him of his mind, and when his eyes closed, he couldn't know if they would ever open again.

The thought was terrifying. He had just started to _live_.

And now Arwen was here.

It was grossly unfair, he thought, without spite, really. It was just very highly... philosophical. And that was all that one had in this room, thoughts. And... regrets? None for him, really. He never lived his life halfway.

He might, however, regret not saying thank-you-goodbye-try-to-survive-without-me-watching-after-your-ass letters to friends and family though.

He'd start by writing a list of people to write to, he decided. His mother went at number one, top of the list, right. Legolas sat at number two, followed by Gimli, and then Elladan and Elrohir. Elrond went to number six. A letter to Gandalf. One to Frodo. One to the rest of the hobits, who did not share in the magnitude of the first one's pains. One to Boromir. One to Haldir. He decided to give Faramir and Eowyn a shared letter. One to Emmett Rigare. His secretary should get one too. And then one to Arianne Underhill, which would be separate from the letter he would be writing to Arwen Undomiel.

That last one, he hoped would remain unread for ever. If he were to die, he hoped Arwen would never wake only to find she had lost him, again.

_Long list_, he winced.

His headache was already getting worse.

To be continued...


	17. Crash

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi gang!**

Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed :) I'm really excited about FEE2 and just finding out how ppl feel about it as a departure from the original. I had fun making it :) Another installment is here. I'm most excited to post the chapters after this though, as that's where all the action is haha :) Anyway, hope you stick around, haha :) They should be up in the next few days :)

Thanks for reading and reviewing. If you have any q's, e-mail me or add that in the review. I'm re-reading all reviews now to see if there's anything that needs to be addressed so I can put that in my usual afterword. Anyway, 'til the next post!

* * *

16: Crash

* * *

Nairobi, Kenya

Africa

* * *

Elrohir's news was enough for Boromir to take the days-off his office had offered him given the fairly traumatic instances that have occurred around him in the last few days - exposure to Ebola, kidnapping, the attempted-suicide of a woman he thought was his friend.

"A cure?" he breathed.

"We think it's a cure," Elrohir corrected, "But we're not sure. It ah... involves creating a serum from elven immunity. But we have to test it."

"With what?"

"Um," Elrohir hesitated, lowered his voice, "Goran says he can get me samples."

"You know how many laws you're breaking?" Brad snapped, "You know the risks you're taking? And how the hell can he sneak that shit out? I'm in the CDC for god's sakes and I can't get one. Nor should I allow anyone else to-"

"It's Aragorn," Elrohir said, simply.

"Fuck," Brad hissed, "I know. Damn it. You know what, damn it all. I'm coming."

Gimli and Haldir had called to say they were headed to Los Angeles to be nearer to the ailing Aragorn, and he begged to join them. Haldir couldn't get him into L.A., though the three decided to fly together to Atlanta to check up on the elves, before Harding and Goran flew to Los Angeles.

* * *

Rome, Italy

Europe

* * *

Very few people had the number to Emmett Rigare's personal mobile. It was the phone he kept close to his person at all times. The business line he let his assistants lord over.

There were extremely few numbers in his personal phone. His uncle's, his sister's, and just recently, his new brother-in-law's. He had a few friends from college there, very, very few. He realized only lately, after the crazy Fellowship kidnapped him not too long ago, that he was not very good at making and keeping friends.

It might have been too much work and too little time. Or perhaps all his life he felt as if he were in a battlefield. There were just always things to be done. He did not realize he needed and wanted the company of people, not just... well, running a company.

_I might even start dating_, he realized, to his own surprise. They told him Eomer of Rohan was once married. Maybe he can find someone too.

The personal phone has never been this busy before. He gets a call every Wednesday (for no particular reason) from Mark Brandy, just to check if he's remembered anything from his past life already.

"Just checking," he would say, "You'll tell me won't you? I just wanted to be sure I'm not the only one who hasn't remembered anything yet."

And then they would speak about other things. Sometimes Pippin would join them. Sometimes they would both be drunk. Either way, he enjoyed the calls immensely. He'd hear from the others too, once in awhile. Not as frequently of course, but the talks were always as enjoyable.

He always looked forward to that phone ringing.

"Eomer?" came the greeting.

He even got used to that old name they preferred over his current one. It never bothered him; it felt weirdly familiar and comforting, as if it was a nickname he had as a child.

"Elladan?" he guessed.

"Elrohir," came the reply, quickly correcting him.

"But you sound more calm," Emmett chided him, "It was the only point of difference from the phone."

"Ha," came the weary reply, "Um. Can you talk?"

"Of course," Emmett said, raising up his hand to the people in the conference room watching him. He stood up from the head of the table and excused himself. He stepped into his office and closed the door behind him.

"You've heard about this Ebola situation in America," Elrohir said.

"Everyone has," Emmett commented, "I've also heard Leland's name almost alongside it in the news." He paused, "Is everyone well?"

"Aragorn caught it," Elrohir said.

"That..." Emmett closed his eyes for a moment, "That is not good."

_An understatement, I know_...

"Do the hobbits know?" he asked.

"I think so, I'm not sure if Gimli called them," said Elrohir with a sigh, "Aragorn called Legolas, Legolas told Gimli - you know those three – Gimli called a lot of people. Anyway. I'm calling on another matter. You're in the industry. Ever heard of a cure?"

"They were focusing on vaccines," Emmett replied, lowering his voice, "We've been asked to bid on the mass production of the most promising clinical trial so far. In case the shit hits the fan, governments want to be prepared. Anyway, once produced, these can be stored for years. But the vaccine has just been in inconclusive human trials, these people were not exposed to Ebola, no one's sure if there are any long-term effects. But people need to be prepared and they need quick, cheap mass production with the best that anyone can give."

"We may have a cure," Elrohir said.

Emmett's eyes narrowed. The businessman in him was intrigued by the idea.

"I know it's illegal," said Elrohir quickly, "But if you think you have the answer to one of the worst diseases in the world, you can't just sit on it, right? Gimli's getting me an Ebola sample to test on. What I do not have, is a sterile and secure facility. I need to make every precaution that I won't be spreading this around."

Emmett bit at his lip thoughtfully. "You're still in Vienna?"

"I'm in Atlanta," Elrohir replied.

"We have affiliates there," Emmett replied, buzzing for his secretary, "I can secure you a laboratory with all the trappings."

"That's what I hoped," Elrohir sighed, "Thank you. One more thing: if this works, can you mass produce it?"

"Not without a ton of questions," Emmett replied, "It costs a lot, and other companies would want in on it. It's a business ethics question, for one thing. Not to mention the security questions; we will be drilled to half our lives on how we came up with it. People are going to ask how we developed a cure so quickly, they will audit our logs and find we never worked on anything relating to Ebola. So from whom did we get it? I can say a couple of genius elves and they'll throw me in the psychiatric ward of that hospital my company helped build. We might even be accused of having fabricated th disease to sell our monopoly of the cure. The Food and Drug Administration will also be having it's say, depending on where you are thinking of releasing it. It will be a nightmare."

He took a deep breath, "Having said that, there are still strings to be pulled and forces to be mobilized. As you said: if there is anything we can do to help, we can't just sit on it. If it works, someone will work on creating tons of it to share, rest assured. It can be me, or somebody else, but it will be accomplished, quickly."

"Okay," Elrohir sighed, "Okay. Thank you."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

The letters were beginning to stack up in a neat, proud pile. His hand hurt, his eyes hurt, his head hurt, _hell_, his brain hurt. But the pile was making feel very, very productive.

The letter to his mother was surprisingly easy to write. They had always been close. He only ever kept two secrets from her. The first one he gave up: _Mom, I know you always thought she was an exhibitionist floozy but I took our neighbor Kat out on a date when I was fifteen. You were right_. The second secret, he found no need to disclose. He thought it would have been complicated to explain to his mother that he was also Aragorn of Gondor. He thought it should have been important to say so, as it was an integral part of his character. As he struggled for the words, he realized he loved her no less in either persona, and would not have treated her any differently. He had always given her everything of himself. It was she, and not the father who had left him too young when he passed away, who instilled in him the strength of his character. None of these things changed now that he recovered his older memories. He loved her deeply, had always told her so. His letter turned into a typical kind of conversation between them.

Come to think of it, his life was generally regret-free. This realization was making the letter-writing more easy. He doodled a caricature of Gimli the Dwarf. It was not very good, but he thought Jimmy Goran might find it funny. Legolas would have found it hysterical, except he doodled the elf next to Goran, making the elf look much shorter.

To Legolas he gave a more serious letter. It turned into a kind-of will, he supposed. The charities he wanted his money to go to, things for his mother. He dissected the things inside his house, thought of whom to give them to. His clothes would fit Boromir and Haldir, he thought, though did not expect the sophisticated European ex-elf to want them. Linens and dinnerware to Legolas, definitely. He heard the elf's home was still trashed. Liquor cabinet to be emptied out at his funeral after-party (_Are they even called after-parties?_ he wondered). Would anyone want a dead man's bed? Probably not.

_Do the hobbits need a car for college?_ he wrote, _Give them mine, tell them to sell it and get a good, sensible brand. Look closely at what they get, my friend. Let Finn choose. Nothing fast..._

_Anduril is mounted on a glass case in my living room_, he added, _I want Arwen to have it. If she will remain sleeping within Arianne Underhill, give it back to the twins_.

_I also have a letter for you to give to Arwen if she does indeed wake. If not, you can just keep it in your person until she dies. At which case, please burn it. Not that I'm overly dramatic and I think she can read it if you cast its ashes out to sea or something. I'd just be deathly embarrassed if you read it, and I'm sure after a few decades, your evil gift of curiosity will assert itself and you might be too old to have the strength to resist the temptation anymore_...

He wished he could give them more. He wished he could have gone shopping, gotten everybody presents. He liked Christmas. He liked thinking about what people liked.

The agitated beeping of life-sustaining machinery caught his attention. The doctor in him calmly but quickly put his makeshift desk aside, and he rose to his feet and walked to the bedside of the young girl who just flat-lined, fighting to save her life.

* * *

San Pedro,

Los Angeles

* * *

"Are those cops the ones we called in?" Montes asked, alarmed.

"No," Leland replied distractedly, as he moved the car closer, "They couldn't have arrived this soon. They're here for another reason."

"What the hell is going on?" Montes muttered, as Leland drove toward a space.

The haphazard parking was anomalous, Montes thought distractedly. Greene basically drew the car to a stop in a more-or-less acceptable position, before jumping out of the car at a dead run, seeking the officer-in-charge to find out what was happening. He even forgot to pull out the keys from the ignition.

_Uncharacteristic_, Montes reflected, as he drew the keys out and pocketed them, especially since Leland Greene had the often-irritating habit of creating a very strict definition of the term _parallel parking_.

Montes walked up to Greene, who was speaking with the ranking officer of the scene. In the bare moments that he had run ahead of Rafe, his expression had already changed from dread to tense anticipation.

"Domestic altercation," Greene filled him in in that clipped tone of his, the kind he got when he was deathly focused on a tight situation. "A girl called saying her boyfriend tried to knock her out and kidnap her."

"Shithead," Montes muttered, "don't these kids have any sense of priorities? There's a damned virus going around for crying out loud."

"The suspect is that young man Chris told us about," Leland said, following the police officer who was leading them to where the suspect was being detained. Todd Lowster, Montes remembered. Poor kids with names like that will end up a little bit crazy.

They found Lowster with his cheek and body pressed against the hood of a police car. He was squirming and kicking like a madman under the flailing hold of two police officers.

"Cassie!" he was screaming, "Damn it, we have to go!"

"Shut up!" one of the men holding him down pressed against him tighter, "Jesus!"

Montes jerked his head at that man, telling him to move away. He replaced the officer's hold, and leaned against the hood to look at Lowster's face.

"I'm Detective Montes--"

"Cassie!" he yelled, ignoring the man completely.

Montes grabbed one side of his face, forcing Lowster to look at him. "You're going nowhere, kid, especially with her. You don't bash around with your girlfriend and expect her to go anywhere with you. Come on. Get real."

"Fuck you!"

"Unfortunately you have bigger problems," Montes continued, "We know you took something from the _Rosa Negra_. I want to know where it is."

Lowster's eyes widened. Montes was reminded of how much the kid was not a career criminal; he just... believed in something that he was willing to die and kill for.

"Where the hell is it?" Montes asked again, tightening his grip on the young man's face, just _slightly_.

"I'll speak with the girl," Leland murmured from somewhere behind him.

"Cassie!" Lowster yelled again, "Cassie! Please just go! Please! Even without me, please just go..."

* * *

Greene recognized the young couple from his first foray into San Pedro a few days ago. Todd Lowster has been trying to get his girlfriend out of town for some time now, after all.

Greene spotted this 'Cassie' being ushered into the back of an ambulance. Though she was walking on her own, she looked a bit worse for wear. He waylaid the EMT's who were preparing to bring her to the hospital.

"You're the girlfriend?" he asked her.

"Cassie Kyler," she replied, shakily. "I know you from TV."

"We're investigating your boyfriend in connection to the Ebola outbreak case," Greene told her without ceremony. He had that odd feeling that they were running out of time.

Her brows raised. "That's crazy."

"We have reason to believe he is involved in an extremist environmentalist group," Greene continued, "responsible for attempts to spread the disease."

"He is in a group," she conceded, "he is passionate and involved. But it just doesn't sound like him. Then again..." she winced, shifting as the EMT's examined her head, "I never thought he'd do anything like this to me. Or anybody. He's... he's a good guy, officer."

"If he is," said Leland, "It might be in his best interest if you helped us in any possible way that you can. If he is innocent, we can prove it. If he is guilty... we can decrease the sentence by minimizing the magnitude of the crime."

"I..." she hesitated, "I really think you are mistaken, detective."

"Nevertheless," said Greene, "I will be asking you questions, and suggest you answer them truthfully, and as concisely as you can." He glanced at the EMT's, "She is capable of this, yes?"

"We don't need to bring her in, if she feels fine," one of them replied.

Greene looked at her hopefully.

She sighed. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I can answer your questions."

"Has Lowster been acting odd lately?" Greene asked.

"What do you think?" she snapped, glancing past Greene's shoulder to where Montes was interrogating the man in question, "Yes. He's been trying to get me to leave town. I've been saying no. This is hardly the time. I think... when he tried to nab me, he wasn't trying to hurt me. I got that feeling."

"Where was he taking you?"

"Just away," she shrugged, "We were going to go to Alaska, originally. And then the quarantine hit and I had no idea what he had in mind anymore."

"Any other thing odd about his behavior?" Leland asked, "Has he been keeping odd hours? Making new friends? Has he told you anything at all about his plans?"

She shook her head, "He just seemed more agitated than the usual. But that's it. Same old friends. Same old routes he'd do for Chris, that's a friend who owns a cafe. We always go on dates there."

"He hasn't been talking about going to odd places?" asked Leland, "Like a warehouse, or a storage shed, anything like that at all?"

She shook her head, "I'm sorry detective, I don't know what to tell you."

"Do you live together?" Greene asked, "does he live here, in the shop?"

"No," she replied, "On both things. He lives in an apartment downtown. And we do not live together."

"So what he does, at home, in his own time," Greene clarified, "You have no idea about?"

"I guess not," she looked over Greene's shoulders again, and her eyes clouded in sadness and regret. "If I help you, I can help him, right?"

"I sincerely believe so," Greene assured her.

"I have a key to his apartment."

* * *

En Route to Atlanta, Georgia

North Atlantic Ocean

* * *

The dwarf was acting suspiciously.

"You haven't been eating," Harding murmured to his partner. Their third companion was asleep on the seat between them. Brad Greer had bravely volunteered to sit between the two Interpol agents, when they were having a light sparring verbal match earlier in the flight.

"Not hungry," came the quiet reply.

"You haven't been talking either," Harding pointed out, "No complaints, no criticisms, you've barely been breathing."

"I'm just worried," Goran said, "Leave me alone."

"I'm worried about you," Haldir said, with surprisingly touching candor. The softness of his tone, the slightly embarrassed aversion of his steely gaze was almost enough to disarm Gimli into talking about what he had done.

"We're almost there, right?" Goran asked.

"Almost," Haldir assured him, "Aragorn will be fine. Everything will be fine."

"I'll hold you to that."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

The United States of America

* * *

"We really have to see Doctor Aarons," her voice sounded shakier than she would have preferred. Mikey Montes was clutching her hand, his beautiful eyes wide with fear as his gaze shot from ambushed intern to Arianne's face and back again.

"He's really busy--" the intern replied.

"He's looking for his mother," Arianne cut him off, "He has a right to see her. Doctor Aarons will be able to tell us more."

_Produce him, now_, she wanted to command.

"Is she sick?" Mikey blurted out.

_Is _he_ sick_? Arianne ached to add.

"I'm sure Doctor Aarons will be able to tell you more, later..." came the stammering reply, "Please. I'm not in any position to--"

"Is mom sick?" Mikey asked again, removing his hand from Arianne's grip to start nibbling at his nails in agitation.

"I'm not in any position to--"

"Who is?" Arianne demanded.

"I'm not in any--"

Mikey slowly backed away from them, unnoticed, until he sprang into a mad run, peering at doors, yelling for his mother, adroitly dodging the outstretched arms of stunned adults who finally thought to try and grab him. Some did not bother, just gazed at him with lonely, weary eyes.

_If his mother was sick, he should know._

He dodged the arms as only a young child could. His movements were quick and fluid. He went past those doors, the one where only the doctors could enter. Arianne followed after him. No one tried to stop her until she sped past them, as they were focused on the calming of the child.

She and Mikey broke into a dimly lit hall lined by glass, seeing through the room of the quarantined patients.

"Mom!" Mikey yelled, banging a small, pathetically futile fist on the glass. Arienne grabbed him from behind before he could think to burst into that closed room. Mikey squirmed against her, crying and elbowing and kicking. She held him tight, and wished someone would restrain her from the same wild, helpless, grief/rage.

She kept her eyes on the occupants of the quarantined rooms. Julianna Montes was asleep on one of the beds. Her body jerked at the sound of her son's dull pound on the glass, seeming for a breathless moment as if she would wake. She did not. She was almost as dead to the world as the comatose little girl.

But Adrian, he heard. The pound of a small fist would not have been anything in that room. But he heard, and he stepped forward against the glass. Arianne realized that he could not see them; the glass must have been tinted, and the hall that she and Mikey were in was barely lit.

He peered at the glass. She wondered if he could feel her eyes desperately raking over his weary face. Searching, searching, _memorizing_, even, as if she feared she would never see him again.

Mikey ceased his struggles and sobbed against her. He embraced her legs. She could feel the eyes of doctors, interns, nurses and orderlies behind her, as if considering pulling her and Mikey away, back the way they came.

Arianne stretched a hand to Adrian's face. Her palm and fingers disappointingly met nothing but the cold of the glass. The sensation sent a shock through her body. It _hurt_, to feel him cold, in a way she could not explain.

The chill of the glass crawled from the tips of her fingers through to the rest of her body. She warmed, only when he closed his eyes, as if he felt her touch.

To be continued...


	18. Every Hope

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi gang!**

One of my favorite chapters... I hope you enjoy! Thanks to all who read and reviewed. C&C's if you can. 'Til the next post!

* * *

17: Every Hope

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia

The United States of America

* * *

"The hell," Elrohir muttered, upon sight of his twin brother and Mithrandir waiting for him and his parents in the lobby of the hotel. He stalked toward them purposefully.

His twin brother pointedly ignored him, and went straight to give their mother an embrace, and his father a look of consternation.

"We are truly doing this?" he asked.

"I suppose so," Elrond said, quietly.

"What are you doing here?" Elrohir asked him with a sigh. In a way he would never admit, however, he was also vastly relieved.

Elladan just looked at him knowingly, shaking his head at his twin in amusement, before tugging on a few strands of his unkempt hair in endearment.

"Ow!" the elf exclaimed, glaring at his brother, "We were just checking out. I wish I managed to avoid you, but Mithrandir's presence gave you perfect timing I believe."

"Where to?" Elladan asked.

"Eomer's lending us a lab," Elrohir explained, "We're trying to make this as safe as it can possibly be. Gimli, Haldir and Boromir are flying in also."

"Will this work?" Elladan asked, as he took his mother's satchel and carried it himself toward their waiting car service.

"We have every reason to believe so," Elrond replied, glancing at Mithrandir for the wizard's thoughts.

"But more than that," said Gandalf, "It appears we have every hope."

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California

* * *

The three of them left the cops in the repair shop, ordering them to check if Lowster used the area as storage for the Ebola cache. The shop was large, and had many battered container trucks that could have been used as storage. Montes and Greene drove with Cassie Kyler to her boyfriend's apartment.

Kyler unlocked the door for the two detectives behind her, and then cautiously stepped back, as instructed.

Montes had his gun drawn, in the event that Lowster had any accomplices who could be hiding out in his house. Straining his elven senses though, Legolas was quite sure the apartment was empty. He simply pushed the door open.

"Reckless," Montes muttered at him.

Leland opened the lights and stepped inside the sparse apartment. It was tiny, barely any room for a bed and a bath. Some knick-knacks. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hard to miss anything you'd have needed a truck to transport, right?" Montes asked.

Frowning, Leland stepped deeper into the tiny apartment. Pushed open doors, and cabinets. Looked optimistically beneath the bed.

The apartment was so extraordinarily ordinary.

Nothing even looked unnatural or displaced. Dust gathered on most of the surface of the items. Nothing had been moved for awhile.

"He doesn't spend time anywhere else?" Leland asked Cassie, hypothesizing that the dust meant the home might be more unused.

"He's out a lot," she replied, "With me, his friends, working..."

"Damn," Montes murmured, as he leaned his head against walls, tapping on them to see if they were hollow. "Any secret hiding places he might have told his girlfriend about?"

"I guess we're both finding he kept a fair amount of things from me," she said, looking around, "Things have always looked this way, though. If you must know."

"We'll call in a few more coats to check the place closer," Montes said to Greene, "We can make use of that warrant-free holiday or something. And if push comes to shove, the girlfriend let us in, didn't she?"

Leland shook his head. "It should be here."

It felt odd, to leave the place they had been so sure would hold what they were looking for, just moments ago. It just felt incredibly odd and wildly, undeniably incomplete.

They were policemen, they were detectives. A decade of finely honed instinct could not possibly be so wrong. Lowster was their man, they knew it. He could only have hidden the cache in his repair shop or in his apartment.

"You're sure this is the only place he lives?" Montes asked her, as he drew out his cellular phone to talk to his boss, and the three of them exited the second floor apartment. They took the stairs instead of the rickety elevator.

"Yes," she replied tersely. She too, seemed displeased with herself. Profoundly annoyed at the situation, yes, but also annoyed over the fact that she had suspected a man she loved of a crazy, heinous crime, and was slowly discovering she was wrong.

"No other family?" Montes asked.

"His mom and dad both died from cancer," she replied. "I guess this is it, all right?"

Montes turned his attention to a report he was making to his Captain, as they exited the stairwell and stepped into the small, semi-rundown lobby.

"Could he have hidden it in your home?" Leland asked, as they stepped out of the building and onto the street.

"I own an ugly little cabinet," she replied, "I'd be able to tell. That is not possible."

The three turned a corner, following the sidewalk around the apartment building, leading to where Greene's car was parked. The sidewalk was lined by windows, likely from the basement of the building. Most of them were closed, though some were menacingly open, the glass jutting out in a low angle at their feet. Greene shifted his steps to dodge one.

"What's down there?" Montes asked, lowering his phone as he ended his call. His instincts bristling, again.

"Basement," she answered, watching him warily, "Probably the laundry, the trash compactors, some storage. I'm pretty sure no one lives there."

Greene caught Montes' eye. The blond detective lowered himself to a crouch, and leaned down to look at what was inside the basement, through one of the windows. He saw a locker room for maintenance crew. Montes and Cassie glanced at him, before looking at the other windows.

"Laundry," Montes declared after looking at his first window and shifting to another.

"Trash!" Cassie announced, jogging towards another window.

"Fuck!" Montes exclaimed, so emphatically that his two companions ran toward him to look at what he was seeing.

This window was closed, and the glass was grimy. It was a room about fifteen feet long and fifteen feet wide. It was lined by pipes, heaters, a sink, miscellaneous knick-knacks and, at its very center, stack after stack of white powder in clear plastic, tied together intricately and delicately by cords and wires. The cache looked opalescent in the dim lighting, as if it was glinting, winking at them. The lighting came from the remnants of sunlight that streamed from the windows, and the slim LCD that indicated, quite menacingly, the time that counted down to 05:00 minutes.

* * *

Arianne watched him, and wondered what he could be thinking of, with that sublime look on his face. He's been writing letters the last few hours, and she, along with Mikey, were finally allowed to sit in the hall across from the glass-encased room to watch those they loved fight to live, if only for a little while.

They sat side by side, Mikey's head lolling in exhausted slumber that he finally succumbed to. His head leaned against her arm, and she adjusted her hold such that he could lay his head on her lap instead.

She watched Adrian's face. It was such an interesting, nuanced face, full of character. She could just watch him forever. It was an oddly familiar, assuring sight. Adrian on a desk, writing letters, writing laws...

_Writing laws?_

_What?_ She was surprised at the odd, random thought. She shook her head and focused on watching him. He had a sure hand, he wrote without hesitation, pausing only for remembrances and thoughts, and the occasional rubbing at the bridge of his nose, as if pressing against some pain.

She played commentator on the movements of his face.

_His brows rose, slowly, elegantly. He just remembered something he wanted to write. His eyes glinted, excitedly. Someone was going to get a taste of his biting wit. He finished the note with a flourish and a slight smile, by the curve of one side of his mouth. He looks very pleased with himself._

_Another sheet of paper. He paused, and his look changed as surely as he changed the addressee. It must have been time to get serious, as his brows knit together. He wrote sporadically, as if itemizing things. _

She also knew when he was doodling, because his pen's movements were cursive and fluid, and he would end by chuckling to himself.

_He set another sheet of paper aside, another letter completed, another person in his life who would know how much he loved them. _

Her heart was struck with envy. She was jealous, of how he could give so much, of how fearless he looked.Mostly, she wondered if he would take the time to write to her.

_You know he would_, a voice in her heart whispered.

Her vision was... shivering. A tear escaped her eye, and then another, and another. The sensation was a nuisance, and she swiped at them in irritation, as they were disruptions to her view of watching her husband as he thought of the things he wanted to say just before he died. It was a life lived without regret, but he took to those letters as if he feared he would forget something that he desperately needed to convey.

_Husband_, she thought again, also another random, odd thought. Oddly fitting. Oddly familiar. Oddly something she could say to him, practically a stranger, say to him without fear of judgment, without fear of rejection.

"What are you doing to me?" she whispered, as she watched him write, again. This one gave him both extremes of sadness and joy. This one he held reverently, writing with much care and consideration, and the burden of memory streaked across his eyes.

She knew this one was for her.

* * *

Atlanta,

Georgia

* * *

"Don't you love having friends with money?" Elrohir asked Brad, Harding and a pensive Jimmy Goran as he ushered the three new arrivals into the expansive laboratory. Eomer had secured them the top floor of a squat building in a secured research compound.

"So says the pauper," Brad sneered at him, before turning to the Lords and Ladies of Imladris with more respect. "Lord Elrond. About time someone came along to put a leash on these guys."

The older elf smiled, and swept gloriously toward his beautiful wife, "Lady Celebrian."

"I am honored," Boromir said. Haldir bowed slightly, and the dwarf just stared. He found her mother Galadriel much, much more attractive. He found it mildly amusing that his standards have since been set impossibly high.

"So will this do?" Elrohir asked Brad the CDC man, who was looking around the laboratory with a critical eye.

"There's a Level 4 lab here?" he asked.

"With suits and isolated refrigeration units," Elrohir replied reading from a faxed note Eomer's secretary sent, "and complete equipment including an electron microscope. Entrance and exit only through a decontamination room in perfect working order. Ventilation systems, check, waste decontamination, incineration and disposal units..."

"This is better than the labs we set up at camp when we're on the field," Brad replied, impressed, "I think this will do very well. Who's handling the material?"

"Um," Elrohir replied, "I'm no lab doctor. Ada's work is high theory for human applications, and he has sure hands. But I am certain we can use your expertise."

Brad breathed, and nodded. It was what he preferred, in truth. He's handled the material expertly before.

"So where's the Ebola sample?" Haldir asked.

Everyone looked at the dwarf expectantly. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, as if nervous and tense.

He cleared his throat, and raised his hand sheepishly.

_That would be me_.

* * *

Harding was gray and livid. Greer was cross-eyed as his mind raced across everything that could have gone wrong. Elrohir's eyes were popping out of their sockets.

Gimli relished the moment of silence before everyone converged around him and started talking at the same time.

"You were in a goddamn airplane--"

"When I asked for a sample I did not mean--"

"Are you crazy--"

"You have any idea how many people you endangered by--"

He raised his hand up in a bid for silence. The Ebola-dwarf got what he wanted.

"Thank you," he sighed, "All right. It was not very smart. But would you have been able to get one?" he looked at Brad, "Would you have been able to?" he looked at Harding.

"No one would have been able to," he said, "And we needed it, all right? It might be crazy, but it's not reckless. I weighed in my options carefully. People can get it from me through making contact with my body fluids, right? I did not eat, drink, I barely even spoke. I did not go to the frickin bathroom at all-- I took something for that, which I am now sorely regretting-- and all these precautions I took without even though I haven't presented any of the symptoms. I read up on this, I'm not stupid. A nurse once caught Ebola, was scared to tell the people she worked with. She went around the city and even shared a drink with friends. She rode a cab, waited in the emergency rooms of two hospitals. A few days later she was dead. And no one else caught it. A doctor once thought she caught Ebola. She decided she could help by cleaning up the blood-streaked rooms that no one would touch after the Ebola sufferers within them seizure-d their way to death and splattered their disease everywhere. She did not catch it. I was careful."

"You are crazy," Harding snapped at him.

"Nevertheless," Gimli said, stubbornly, "You have what you need, right? We just have to test this thing and we'll _all_ be fine. Right?"

"Talk about pressure," Elrohir muttered, "We have to get to work."

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California

* * *

They burst back into the apartment building, Montes already on his mobile hurriedly reporting the developments to their captain. Greene, the fastest runner, moved ahead of his companions toward the stairwell.

"Cassie," he said to the stunned young woman trying to keep pace with him, before going down the stairs, "I need you ask someone to shut the power and water down in this place. I want heaters, air, water, everything, dead. Then look for a PA or scream or go door to door, I don't give a damn. Just empty this place out. Do not hit the fire alarm, we don't want water here. Ask someone to help you. And then empty out the surrounding houses and buildings, work outwardly from this place as the center. Get everyone as far from this building as you possibly can."

She nodded, looking blitzed and mildly excited, and ran to do as he ordered. Montes caught up to Greene as he opened the door to the stairwell headed to the basement.

"Captain says they can have back-up here in three minutes," Montes declared flatly, "Bomb squad in twice that."

"That won't help anybody," Greene muttered, drawing out his mobile as he ran down the stairs.

"They usually expect more than a five minute lead time, brat," Montes panted after him.

At the landing, the small room looked overwhelmed by the biological weapon that sat at it's heart. Up close, the LCD lighting was brighter, as it counted down to 04:00 minutes.

"Shit," Montes muttered.

Greene took photos of the bomb from all angles with his camera phone, as he talked. "Montes, tell them we're sending pictures. Tell the Captain to assign the back-up he's sending to clearing the people in the area, not to send them in here with us. If they're not the bomb squad, they can't help, and if this thing blows, it will just end up killing more people if he sends them in here. We want people _out_, not in. If someone can talk us through diffusing this though, we might stop it."

"Shit," Montes muttered again, though did as he was told. He rattled off Greene's instructions to their captain, who, like his blond partner, was approaching the situation with an unnerving calm.

The photos having been sent out, Greene now looked about the room for tools that they were likely going to need. Montes watched his crisp, quick, movements. He though Leland looked like a caged animal, curbing its rage.

Leland's eyes raked across the surface of a cluttered, old rack. Finding what he wanted, he used the lowest row to stand upon and reached for a toolbox from the top, sending miscellaneous pieces of odd materials down to the ground or over his head-- kids scissors, garden shears, crayons, rolls of duct tape and packaging tape, odd bits of paper, small boxes, a Barbie doll, just a miscellany of things. He barely registered this as he tore open the toolbox and found it sufficiently filled.

Montes put his phone on loud speaker as his Captain began to give instructions.

"It's not a conventional bomb," the Captain said, and in the background, Leland and Montes could hear an expert coordinating with the precinct, also likely from a mobile source.

"It never is," Montes grinned sickly at his partner. The time counted down to 03:00 minutes.

"No visible chemical power source for a blast to cut off from the fuse, no readily discernible fuse, no--" the Captain was just repeating everything that was being said to him before he apparently got annoyed and snapped at his expert, "You know what, shut up. Just tell them what color wire to cut or whatever it is you louts do. Unless... are you saying there is nothing they can do?"

* * *

Legolas' elven ears picked up on the bomb expert's distant reply before the Captain could declare it to him and his partner.

_"From how it looks we can assume the main objective of this bomb is not destruction but diffusion. The wires must be rigged to tear at the plastic covering and release the powder. Likely a fan is also rigged to create movement of the particles. But this is not in the conventional model, Captain. We've never trained for a bomb like this. We can't give them expert instructions for a kind of bomb we're not trained for in just two minutes. Just get them out of there, get everybody out of there..."_

Legolas' eyes raked across the room, and he picked up the scissors and the duct tape that had fallen from the rack earlier. He also raided the boxes, and found used plastic bags for recycling.

"Greene, Montes," the Captain said urgently, "Just get out of there, and bring as many people out as you can. Get the hell out of there, and go as far as you can."

"Greene, you heard the man," Montes told him.

"No," Legolas murmured, preoccupied, as he looked around the room.

"Greene, are you insane?!" Montes exclaimed, "Let's go!"

"That was a goddamn order!" the Captain barked at them.

_When is he going to figure out that does not really work with me_, Legolas thought, absently.

He tossed the duct tape and scissors to Montes, and he climbed up the rickety rack to reach the windows.

"We can block all air exits," he said breathlessly, reaching for the window and closing it, "If this bomb is not made to blow things up, we can just block all air exits. Let it blow, as long as the powder is kept from reaching outside. Give me tape, Rafe!"

His partner cursed under his breath but did as he was told, drawing out strips and strips of duct tape, stabbing the scissors through them, and handing them to Legolas, who shut the windows, and lined the ledges obsessively with tape. And then he and put a plastic bag over them, taping all around it twice over, to avoid the entry or exit of air. Adroitly, he moved to another window, all while using the rows of the rickety rack as footing, and did the same thing. Their Captain was demanding for them to respond, and rather explicitly vocalized his disapproval of their renegade actions.

"Two more windows," Montes told him urgently, "We don't have time..."

Legolas shoved a bunch of plastic bags to Montes, saying, "Grab more tape and maybe the shears, do the others."

He jumped off the rack, and looked around the room urgently. He focused on the sink, and worked on sealing the faucet and the drain, before spying a vent and dragging a stool beneath it, stood on top of that, and covered it also. He looked on and sealed ravenously any open hole he saw on the ground, on the pipes, rat holes and damaged walls, anything at all that looked as if it could bring air in or out of the room.

"Jesus, Greene," Montes breathed, taking over Legolas' previous place to work on the other windows, "You're like fucking MacGyver."

"One minute and a few," Legolas declared, glancing at the LCD as Montes jumped from the rack after sealing the windows.

"The air's getting thick in here," Montes panted, "Time enough to close the door behind us and seal it, don't you think?"

Legolas almost grinned at him. He now dared to think they were going to make it...

_Time to go..._

Except there was a cool breeze tickling his more attuned senses. There was air moving in the room. There was air, from somewhere, moving in that blasted room...

"Damn," he muttered, pulling back the rack that they had been using as a makeshift ladder this entire time, "Montes, help me."

Together, they pulled the rack away from the wall, to reveal a large vent spewing cool air at their faces. It was about two square feet.

"We're not going to make it," Montes breathed.

And Legolas came to a quick, almost unquestionable decision. It was surprising, how he found that it was actually one of the easiest choices he'd had to make all his life.

"Montes," he said, as he began to work with his garbage bag and tape on the large vent. "Get out, and seal the door behind you. I got this."

"What?" the other was dumbfounded, and from the confusion in his voice, Legolas could tell it hasn't yet set in to Rafe that he was asking to be left behind.

"I got this," Legolas repeated distractedly, "Go! We don't have time. All this is for nothing if the powder gets out the door. Go!"

"I'm not leaving you here!" Montes said, "Are you fucking crazy?"

Legolas dropped his tools to the floor, and grabbed Montes by the shoulders. "Your wife is sick. If anything happens, your children will need you. Please. Go. For your children."

"Always gotta be the goddamn hero?!"

A pause.

"What the hell do you mean my wife is sick?!"

_He has a dirty mouth whenever he's upset_, Legolas reflected inanely. He wondered if perhaps he was beginning to get hysterical with the urgency of the situation, his frustration over not being followed, and the thinning air.

"She might be sick," he found himself saying to his partner, as deft hands tore through tape and plastic, "I, on the other hand, won't get sick. I promise. I'm... I'm different."

The words came in a flurry now, honest, undisguised, and long been awaiting release.

"I'm different," Legolas said again, turning to face him, "There's something about me that's not like everybody else. That's the secret. I won't get sick. I _don't_ get sick. I promise. Please. Go. Your children will need you."

Montes stared at him for a long moment, looked at his eyes, looked at his face, wondering if this was the rantings of an impossibly arrogant man, or delusions to appease a friend. He must have found the simple truth of what the other said, for he gave an odd kind of breathless nod, before turning away and running for the stairs.

To be continued...


	19. Breath

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**Hi gang!**

Last few chapters of FEE2... Can't wait to totally focus my efforts on FEE3... God knows when that's coming out, haha, but at least you know I'm trying very hard, and be assured that once it gets out there it should be updated constantly.

Anyway, noticed that quite a few of you are annoyed at my cliffies... this one should appropriately irritate you also then, haha, but I make up for it with constant updates, right? I'm not completely evil. Can't wait to post Chapter 19... there's a scene there that i'm just itching to find out what you think about. But well, that's tomorrow's worry.

Please review if you can. Thanks for reading! Here's Chapter 18 and 'til the next post!

* * *

18: Breath

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

_Dearest Arwen,_

_Where do I start?_

_I haven't had this hard a time looking for words to say to you since that first time I saw your face and was enamored, and left breathless. That moment captured me for ever, changed the course of my life. I cannot give words to illustrate the magnitude of your effects, nothing can capture the feeling of the world shake and shatter and re-assemble itself, beautifully fashioning itself around you. _

_My world was made for you, and thereafter, moved for you, and moved around you, as if it struggled to compensate for the fact that my life cannot always move _with_ you. I wish we began together. I wish we never ended. I have no regret in life, except that I cannot live forever, even if it were just to keep the tears from your eyes._

_Your tears break my world. They leave you and stain me. And nothing is ever the same again. And again the world changes simply by the look on your face._

_I need you to be happy in a way that leaves me robbed of words. Again, robbed of words. I am yours, can you tell? By your gaze and your hands and your lonely smile you claim me, body and soul, I am yours._

_In life and death I am yours._

_But you know this already. You know me inside and out._

_I love you._

_And you know this too._

_What you do not know, dearest Arwen, is that if we should ever live again, I plan to start early. _

_I will find you at age... I don't know, five, maybe. I'll make fun of you and make you cry, because that's what young boys do to the girls they like. You'll punch me in the nose. My mother will say I deserved it. She and your mother will be great friends. We'll see each other more. We will not always be happy about that, but we'll get used to it._

_At age thirteen I'm awkward and gangly, and then the better looking boys will start to make their intentions known to you, as you grow more and more into your promised beauty. I'll be very smart, I've always known I wanted to be a doctor. We'll be best friends, and waiting for each other to say how much in love we are, except we're too shy, too afraid to ruin everything._

_And then prom time comes. I ask you to go with me and you say yes. Years later we recount everything at our wedding, about the high school sweethearts and childhood friends who ended up growing old together._

_And then we'll die but that's all right; we'll live again, and I'll find you again. Who knows... maybe by then we'll make a home with white fences under a dome in Mars. Anywhere is home with you._

_I will always know how to find you. _

_A man always knows his way home, they say._

* * *

San Pedro

Los Angeles

* * *

Legolas heard the door to the basement shut behind Montes. Without power, sunlight, and the light from the open door, his only illumination came from the screen that counted down the release of the biological weapon.

He heard the screeching sound of the tape Rafe drew out to cover the sills of the door. Behind him, he heard a soft, almost delicate beep as the timer counted down to zero.

He stuck the last of the tape to seal the vent, knowing he'd done his part. Taking a last, clean breath, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

The sound was crisp when the wires snapped and the plastic holding the powder broke. And then he heard the soft whir of a small fan from within the makeshift bomb activating. Its air made the Ebola powder dance across the room.

Trapped, they swirled and swirled and got nowhere, just shrouding the room in a cloud of thick, oppressive white. And then the light from the LCD screen died, leaving him in total darkness.

The fan too, died after a few minutes, as it was probably rigged to work for just a little while in order to scatter the weapon particles.

When that died, there was just silence.

* * *

The Captain harassed a fresh young rookie to drive him clear across town at breakneck speeds to reach the LA Harbor apartment where his two rebel detectives had found a blasted Ebola bomb they decided to stop themselves.

He got there about the same time as the CDC and Hazardous Materials Response Unit of the FBI. The apartment and about a couple hundred feet around it was cordoned off, and all establishments in this area was emptied of civilians. Semi-permanent wire fences were being put up around the sealed area, and he had to flash his credentials four times across checkpoints just to reach the makeshift command post that the containment team had put up.

He pushed his way past a flurry of people, finding Rafael Montes at the center of the commotion.

"Chief," he said to his boss, rising up from his seat. He looked weary to the core of his bones, and his eyes had the troubled look that was not unlike the look most men in the station got when they lost a friend on the job.

Montes was wearing borrowed sweats from the fire department, and his hair was wet as if he had just come from the shower. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing a small cut covered by cotton and medical tape.

Apparently, he had already been taken through the decontamination showers, all his personal belongings exposed to the virus had been disposed of, and he had already been tested for the infection.

"I'm clean," he reported to his boss, "For now. They're going to lock me up in quarantine though, just in case. But I was cleared to make my report."

The Captain looked at the much higher ranked occupants of the room. The more simplistic, straightforward Montes of course, was fairly oblivious to the the politics of the thing, and looked to his station Captain for instructions.

"Go on."

"Detective Greene and I followed a transportation lead," Montes said, "When we realized that the cargo had to be transferred by a truck, and when we realized that we had to look into repair shop activities. We also closed in on an environmentalist who had access to a repair shop and a truck of the dimensions the job required. Unexpectedly, we got caught in the middle of a domestic altercation. This Todd Lowster guy, he tried to kidnap his girlfriend and drag her out of the state. She fought back, called the police. The fact that Lowster shared Chandra Bouvier's cause, had access to a vehicle, and wanted to get out of the state as soon as he possibly could with his chick clued us in. We had some of our boys check the repair shop, and asked the girlfriend to let us into his apartment. Greene and I went.

"She had his keys," Montes continued, "We didn't find anything in there. We were exiting the building when we saw from outside that the... the bomb, I guess, was in the basement.

"We didn't have time," his voice began to waver, and his eyes looked only at his Captain's stern face, "The bomb squads couldn't arrive in time. The thing was going to blow. We found tape and garbage bags down there. They said it didn't look like the bomb was going to destroy anything, it was just going to diffuse the shit around. We did the best we could to cover up all windows and ledges and every goddamn hole we could find, even sinks and drains and vents and rat holes. We were gonna let it blow, but if we could cover everything then we thought we can curb the damage, you know. But we were running out of time. Greene he... he stayed behind. Told me to get the hell out, you know, he's got the inside covered. I just had to shut the door behind me, and block the frames and everything. Because it was all for nothing if I didn't."

His eyes welled, and his shoulders hunched in his shame. "I never would've left him if not for the kids, you know. Julianna, my wife, she might be sick. If she died and I died, they'd have no one. But I never would have left if not for them..."

The Captain put a warm hand to his quaking shoulder.

"So he's still in there and I sealed the goddamn door," Montes cleared his throat, muttering, "Like I put nails in his goddamn coffin..."

The Captain looked at one of the CDC officials. "What's the situation on the retrieval of our guy?"

The CDC man winced. "Detective Montes was adamant about us taking care of that situation right away. But in all honestly, I am telling you at this point that it is a given that Detective Greene is infected. He is likely the most infected anyone could ever get infected. The virus will not show its severest, most life-threatening symptoms for days, so you need not worry about him dying in there of Ebola anytime soon. Think of it as non-negotiation with a terrorist. We will not compromise public safety to save him. We are prioritizing containment of the virus before we make any effort to pull him out. The Army concurs. What we should be worried about is... well to put it plainly, if he and Detective Montes have secured the airways as well as we all hope, he's most certainly running out of air."

Montes' head shot up at this. _Oh that bastard_, he thought, _Not going to get sick, are you? I guess not, not if you've already suffocated to death_...

"How much time?" Montes breathed.

"From the dimensions of the room," said an Army analyst, "Average intake of people sharing Detective Greene's physique, and factoring in the pollutant of that much substance in the air, we are estimating about two hours breathing room. Maybe three, if you can keep him calm and still. He can stay alive maybe a little bit longer than that, but at that rate, if he survives, we can already expect a considerable level of brain damage from the lack of oxygen."

"What's being done for the containment and how long will that take before we can work on extracting him?" the Captain asked.

"It's going to be tight," the CDC official admitted, "We're lining the hallway from the entrance of the apartment to the door to the basement in special tarpaulin. Then we're creating regulated pressure zones along the length of the hallway. The one nearest the basement, by the door, will have air pressure to draw air in, and allow it out only through a special filter. The area next to it will be the decon chamber, where we're installing disinfectant showers. The area after that, nearest to the entrance to the apartment building, is the dressing room and clothes disposal area. It sounds like a big operation, because it is. We're constructing a camp here, gentlemen, in a few hours time. But we have the manpower and any resource we demand. We might make three hours, at best case. I'm very sorry, Captain."

* * *

Atlanta,

Georgia

* * *

They isolated the dwarf in a secured room. They gave him every creature comfort possible-- television, candies, pizza, anything at all that he wanted, he got. He moved about fairly calmly in the glass-encased room, munching on a chocolate bar as he worked on his laptop.

Harding was watching him quietly. The Interpol agent hasn't spoken to the ex-dwarf since he announced how he got the Ebola sample through.

_I grabbed a dirty needle and stabbed myself with it before it was disposed of_, he had explained, _quick, easy, almost painless. Effective too, I heard._

Harding tapped on the glass to catch his attention, motioning for Goran to go to the intercom that allowed them to hear and speak to each other from past the glass.

"Doesn't this remind you of jail?" Gimli asked him, in an attempt to break the silence.

"Which is where you belong," Harding told him, still coldly, "You do not try and make fools of the people who are trying to help in this world, do you understand that? You make yourself ill, and brought risk to countless people. You are supposed to be protecting people, not harming them!"

"I thought it through," Gimli retorted, "All right? And what could I have done, huh? Knowing Aragorn was sick? Knowing so many others are sick? If we have a cure, we have to act on it."

"You could have told me."

"You would have stopped me," Gimli pointed out, "You're one of those people, it's easier to apologize to you than to ask for permission."

"Oh you think so?"

"Because you understand the things that need doing," Gimli replied, "And because you're my friend."

Harding was annoyed. He pounded on the glass, once. It made Gimli wince. "You'd better be damn sure no one caught it from you."

_And_ d_on't you dare die_, he ached to say.

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California

* * *

Legolas coughed in the thick, oppressive darkness.

It was a dry, discomfiting hacking sound that grated at his nerves. But his throat was dry, and his eyes were itchy and irritated from the powder, and he sat on his commandeered corner irritably, helpless, uncomfortable and disconcertingly bored.

His phone rang, expectedly, a few minutes into his aloneness. His boss was calling, and he knew with a sigh what it was going to be about.

He cleared his throat, and yet the voice that emerged from him was annoyingly hoarse and raspy, "Captain."

"Greene," came the clipped reply, "You sound dead. You're sure you're alive?"

An interesting question. He chuckled, and coughed from all the sickening powder he's been _breathing_. "Yes sir, I believe so."

"How's the power on this thing?" the Captain asked.

It took Legolas a moment to realize that he was referring to the cell phone. He pulled it from his ear and glanced at the screen. "It will last longer than my air, I believe."

A snort from the other end of the line, and he heard an angry cry from Montes in the background.

"You sick bastard," Montes yelled at him, "You knew about the air! You promised you won't die!"

"I promised I won't get sick!" Legolas corrected, "You tell him, Captain!"

"Shut up and save the air," the Captain ordered, "Listen close, Greene. It's not looking very good."

Legolas bit at his lip, "I can imagine, sir."

"You have about two, three hours of air in there," the Captain said grimly, "and then you're going to get air hungry, all right? Shortness of breath, gasping, you get the picture? Your..." he hesitated, "Your brain won't take to that very well, right? And you're going to get confused, and you're going to get desperate. It's not going to be pretty. And I'm telling you it's probably going to hurt. But I need you to not open anything, all right? I need you to sit still, and calm down, and not open anything."

"I know, Captain," Legolas said quietly, "I understand."

"I'm sorry, Greene."

Legolas pressed his lips to a thin line. "But we'll make three hours, won't we?"

He went for the upper limit. He was, after all, an elf with hidden reserves.

"We're trying," the Captain replied, "I need you to relax, shut up and not talk, but keep this line open, all right? Do not hang up, we'll give you periodic updates, and any changes from your end that we need to know of, you tell us. We keep this line open, all right? Check your time, and monitor yourself. You start to get nausea and shortness of breath, you'll get very confused shortly afterwards. I need you to tell me when you feel ill, all right? It's not like you, but I need you to do that, as part of your duty, because I'm going to have to remind you not to open anything. I need you to do that, because no matter how sure you are right now, I'm telling you that the air in there is going to confuse you, and you might even get short-term memory loss. I need you to tell me, all right?"

"I understand," Legolas said softly, smiling as he joked, "I'll tell you... if I remember."

* * *

It was a testament to the disease raging within him that he woke from a deep sleep to find Julianna Montes sobbing quietly, and the bed of Tessa Bosco glaringly empty.

Adrian shot up sitting, and gripped the edges of the bed as his vision blurred and his stomach turned in disagreement with the sudden movement. He felt weak, and noted with some alarm that he had been hooked up to monitoring machinery and IV's in his sleep, without his notice.

"Julianna?" he called to his roommate once, finding no voice, and then cleared his throat and called her again. She turned her head to face him. Blood was streaking from her battered lips, and some from her nose and the corners of her eyes, along with her tears. Her face looked bruised.

"She died," Julianna whispered, "I heard the alarms. I thought it was mine. They came in with their carts and their medicine and they called her. And I called her. But she wouldn't come back. They took her out of this room in a goddamn plastic bag."

"I... didn't even hear a thing," he said quietly, "It was a good fight, Julianna. She tried. We all tried."

_Repeatedly_, he thought. He had just brought Tessa back from a crash hours ago.

He glanced at the monitors over Julianna's head. Her heart was beating erratically; she was upset, or perhaps the Ebola had already reached her heart.

"She's so young," Julianna breathed, "Dear god, I hope Mikey doesn't... Dear god..."

He watched her eyes drift to the ceiling, possibly dreaming past them, to the skies, to heaven, whispering her prayers desperately.

"Julianna," Adrian said quietly, intently, "You have to call your husband."

She closed her eyes for a long moment.

"I know."

* * *

Montes did not know if he was more horrified by the sound of his friend's coughing or by his silence. In uncharacteristically obedient form, Leland Greene had fallen silent as he was bid by the Captain, to save his oxygen. He also left his cellphone on. Montes and his boss sat together on a table in the corner of the makeshift command center, the Captain's phone in front of them.

To his deep and profound annoyance, it had already been three hours since he closed the doors on his best friend and partner. Three hours of this silent correspondence, of hearing him cough as if he was hacking out a lung over the mobile phone. The CDC was cutting it close.

"Two..." Leland gasped, prompting the Captain to lean toward the phone closer, "Two-hour mark...am I right?"

_No_, Montes thought, catching the worried eye of his boss. Leland had asked that exact same question an hour ago.

"You still got your head on straight?" the Captain asked.

"I'm not to open anything," Leland breathed.

"Damn straight," the older cop muttered.

"I'm not to open anything..." Leland murmured, breaking into another cough.

"Where the hell is that goddamn rescue squad?" Montes grated, rising to his feet, as if to seek someone out to rattle.

"You screaming at someone to hurry up will not help anybody," the Captain told him darkly, "Sit down."

"And my wife is not returning any of my calls," Montes groaned, running a hand through his hair, "Jesus, Greene, you two had better come out of this shit alive, or God help me I will--"

His phone rang, and he hurriedly answered it. "Julianna?"

* * *

"Julianna?" he heard his partner exclaim, a few moments before he heard Montes' anguished, "What? No... No..."

Legolas closed his eyes in despair for him, and in a prayer up to the gods.

_Gods give us strength_...

"What's that, Greene?" the Captain barked at him.

He blinked himself to greater awareness, realizing he did not just speak out loud, he also spoke in Elvish. He ignored the question, and coughed again. He was choking on the damn dust.

_Gods forget the strength_, he thought, _Gods just please give me water..._

He coughed, and his stomach turned, and he clutched at it as nausea rolled over him. He heaved up bile and saliva and that shit-powder on the floor. His head was pounding. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. It was all he could hear. He groaned, curled in on himself.

"Greene!" his Captain called, "Greene!"

"I won't open anything," he drawled, drunkenly. He repeated it in Elvish, for himself. He clawed at his throat, oppressed by the powder and the non-air and the darkness. He coughed again, and gasped, and realized he could not quite stop.

Breath after inadequate breath followed. He could not get enough.

Legolas crawled to a different corner of the basement, dragging his phone with him, as far away as he could possibly be from the vents and windows he had sealed only hours before, just to make sure he doesn't get any crazy ideas about opening anything in his thoughtless desperation.

The gasps dissolved into ragged breathing broken only by dry heaving that offered him no comfort. Every breath was useless, and he felt as if he was breathing in sand. He felt trapped, and hot and cold at the same time.

The only light in the room was the dim glow of his mobile phone screen, for which he was relieved. In the darkness, it was the only thing to look at, the only thing to focus on. To look at it was to be reminded of the world outside, of his responsibilities to sit still and keep from tearing out the bags, open up the windows, breathe in the air.

He leaned against the corner, mouth open, just _hungry_ for air. In the darkness, he could hear Montes talking urgently to his wife, and then asking Greene if he was all right, and then turning back to Julianna, and then turning back to him.

"Julianna, one second honey, Greene?! Greene...!"

The Captain was reminding him to keep calm, help was coming. _Keep calm... Help was coming_...

He thought it must have been terribly macabre, that they were basically listening to him die.

_But I'm not dying here_, he had resolved, hours ago. It was just so hard to imagine; what the hell was keeping everybody from setting him free?

He dropped the cellphone to the ground, heard it clatter uselessly. His fingers were cold and numb. He was tired of holding it. He was tired of waiting.

He wanted air.

His fingers clenched, caught at the walls on his sides. He could hear his own ragged breathing ruling the room. Just the room and the darkness and his desperate gasping. He clutched at the walls. He could feel wood splintering, his skin breaking. He clutched at the walls as if he was clutching for control, for breath, for life.

When he (_finally!, _he thought fleetingly) lost consciousness, it was as if the world became blessedly still again.

To be continued...


	20. Casualties

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

**IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ:**

Hi gang!

So this is it... the last chapter of FEE2. I'll be posting my author's afterword in the chapter following this one. I usually post the last chapter and the afterword at the same time but I'm not yet done with the afterword, haha... I'll give you a few good reasons to stick around for that though: (1) I'll be thanking everyone who was instrumental in the completion of FEE2 (2) And the first chapter of FEE3 will also be posted in the afterword.

In the meantime... Chapter 19, and 'til the next post; i hope you stick around, haha... c&c's welcome :)

* * *

19: Casualties

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia

The United States of America

* * *

Gimli was half-asleep, when Tyvek-suited Lord Elrond and Boromir entered his room. Their movements were quick and hushed, with restrained excitement. They were carrying a clear bag containing thick, clear liquid.

"You think you have the cure?" Gimli asked, sitting up in bed. His head was hurting.

"The tests look very promising," Lord Elrond replied, "Very promising."

"We should bottle elven genes and sell 'em," Boromir grinned at him more enthusiastically, "You'll be all right, master dwarf. And once this gets out there, many others will be too."

"What are we doing to 'get it out there?'" Gimli asked.

"We had one of Eomer's people test it, independent of biases," Boromir replied, as he hooked the bag up along the rest of Gimli's IV's, "It looks good, Gimli. Better than anyone could have dared to dream. We're... we're sending highly concentrated cure samples to the CDC, and leaving FDA approvals and mass production issues up to them. This way, we won't be burying Eomner in that suicidal shit pile he'd get himself in if his company did it. I'll be the only one buried."

"What do you mean?" the ex-dwarf asked.

"They'll want to know how I got it," Boromir said, "And I'll never tell."

Gimli frowned. "You'll lose your job."

Boromir shrugged, "We've been hearing this a lot, and I think I'm getting the bug, but if I know something needs to be done, and I'm the only one who can do it, I just have to move forward, right, Ebola-Dwarf?"

Gimli snorted at him, before his eyes took on a thoughtful glint. "You said concentrated cure samples?"

"Enough for several hundred doses," said Lord Elrond, "It should tide everyone through the current crisis. Until they discover a cure that does not involve admittedly rare elven genes."

"Or until they learn to reproduce the elven proteins they find in the serum," Boromir added, "Oh, man. How am I going to explain this one. Everyone's going to ask me where I got it, what – no offense- animal we got the cure from."

"You know I think I can help you avoid the questions of the CDC," Gimli said.

"Yeah?" Boromir looked skeptical.

"I still have the passwords and computer codes of YinYang," said the ex-criminal hacker, "I can... slip in some details here and there, you know. We can just say we found the formula somewhere in there."

"Wouldn't that up the kid's sentence?" Boromir asked, "Not that he doesn't deserve it, just that I wouldn't feel right about that. He was, after all, just the transporter."

"I can..." Gimli hesitated, "I can send you an e-mail from Chandra Bouvier. As a matter of fact, I can send you an e-mail from anyone with an e-mail address. You can just say she sent you the location of the cure before she died. Maybe she was sorry. I don't know, we'll come up with a fairly compelling e-mail. Yeah... Tell them you don't know what's in the cure, she just told you where to find it, and a formula to dilute it effectively. The CDC can test if it works, evaluate it, and mass produce it from your concentrated sample..."

Boromir frowned, "I'd hate to give any indication of clearing her name. Besides, I think she would hate that. She owns her decisions without regret. But so what, right? She created this mess. Let her name fix it."

* * *

San Pedro, Los Angeles

California

* * *

They found him slumped in a dark, obscure corner of the room. His hands were on his sides, his legs stretched before him. His head was tilted up at an aggressive angle, his blue-tinged mouth open in a desperate quest for air. His dark-rimmed eyes were half-open and glassy.

He looked like doll with its strings cut, gathering dust on a shelf. The powder was thick inside the basement, dusting everything. His hair was caked with it, his gray-tinged face ashen with it.

The men in the protective plastic suits thought for sure that he was dead.

They took two hours longer getting to him than projected, which was two hours longer than what time he had. They worked feverishly at the start, until they entered the third hour and began to feel hope slipping from them.

They heard it was Leland Greene stuck inside, that detective who helped save a ship of people from a bomb threat in Europe not too long ago, who once again put his life on the line to prevent a national disaster that would have resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people, if not millions. They started to think about a hero's funeral.

One of the men in suits crouched in front of the fallen detective. There was no movement, no sign of life. He placed two fingers to Greene's neck, and found, to his surprise, a heartbeat. He scrambled for the oxygen mask he brought with him, and fitted it over the man's head to put over his mouth and nose.

"Detective Greene?" he called, as he pulled Greene from the corner and laid him to the ground flat, "Detective Greene!" He started to pump at the detective's chest. "Detective Greene! Damn it..."

As if waking from a deep sleep, Greene took a long, heavy gasp of air. His body arched at the sensation, and he drank in the air hungrily, just breathing, and coughing out stale air. The man placed a calming hand over his chest, willing him to take it easy.

"Detective Greene?" he called again.

Brilliant blue eyes fluttered open. They were clouded and red-rimmed, but the blue of his irises was vibrant, and they fought for focus to track the source of the voice.

The man smiled at Leland Greene, "You're safe now, Detective."

Greene closed his eyes and just breathed for a long, quiet moment. Around him, the CDC team charged with his safe extraction was preparing his body for the decontamination chamber. They were taking all of his personal effects, beginning to cut at his contaminated clothes.

His eyes snapped open, and he weakly tried to shift away from them.

Strong hands braced him by the shoulders, "Please calm down, lieutenant. We have to make sure you do not bring any more of the disease out with you than you have to, all right? We have to take everything, and then we'll be bringing you to the decontamination showers, take some blood samples, and then-- Damn it!"

The detective beneath him bucked and struggled, fighting his hold. Greene's eyes were still clouded, confused, _scared_. But his strength was a surprise, and a relief given what he had just been through. Still, he was making it exquisitely difficult for them to help him.

"Detective Greene," the man holding him urged, "Please calm down!"

Greene was mouthing something, from beneath the oxygen mask over his face. He was trying to say something...

"Sedate him!" someone exclaimed.

"No!" the man holding Greene down retorted, "He just came from cerebral hypoxia, are you crazy? You might never get him back!"

"Does he look damaged to you right now?" someone else exclaimed, "Give him the shot!"

Greene struggled, and it did not seem at all as if he was affected by the syringe someone had stuck his arm with. The crew waited silently for the drugs to take effect as they grimly held him down, but Greene's determination to get free was not curbed at all.

"He's supposed to be out like a light by now," someone muttered, gripping the detective's kicking legs.

"Tough bastard," another agreed.

"Detective Greene," the man said again, calmly, "Please let us help you!"

His struggles dislodged his breathing mask enough for his hoarse words to be heard by the man closest to him, the man who first found him. "No... No tests..."

The man's brows furrowed in confusion, as another colleague gave Leland Greene a second shot of the sedative. Greene's brilliant eyes rolled back, and he fell against the ground, limbless.

"I told you you're taking a goddamn risk doing that!" he said to his colleague angrily.

"_He's_ the risk, Ivan," argued the other, "It's just procedure. Unruly potential victims must be dealt with in their best interest and the best interest of the public."

Ivan re-set the mask over the now-unconscious Leland Greene's face, and set his jaws in irritation. The crew went about their business of preparing him for transport.

* * *

It felt as if the eyes of the world were turned toward the Ebola incident. Channel after channel, station after station, page after page of magazines and newspapers and websites, the world struggled to form a complete picture of what had happened, and more horrifying, what could have happened.

The reports were made from all over the world. Every aspect of the case was examined. Reporters were in Korea, investigating who this kid YinYang was. They were in France, talking about Chandra Bouvier. They were in Uganda, where YinYang was being detained before transfer to an undisclosed maximum security facility, and they were in Kenya, where Chandra Bouvier finally breathed her last.

The reporters were in Georgia when it was announced that a cure was found. They were in Italy, when the bid for mass producing the vaccine for a miscellany of governments was won by the Rigare conglomerate. They were in Georgia, trying to get in touch with Brad Greer, who had been e-mailed the location of the cure by Bouvier before her death. They were in California, trying to get news on the health of Leland Greene.

The detective was brought out of the San Pedro apartment building in a _bag_, for crying out loud. Everyone thought he was dead, and that was what was first reported, to the anguish of his colleagues and friends. It took an hour for word to get around that he was alive, and that the bag was especially created for transport of infected patients.

The virus diffusion bomb was successfully derailed by detectives Greene and Montes. The cure was being administered to everyone who was infected, and the vaccine was being given to everyone around them.

The world was moving, and shifting, and righting itself up again.

The death toll was remarkably small, compared to what it could have been. Less than twenty people were killed in California, and less than a hundred deaths in Africa. Chandra Bouvier was generally counted amongst the casualties, though she had poisoned herself.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

They let her inside his room a few hours after they vaccinated her. Mikey Montes they assigned to councilor that the CDC allowed inside the hospital, when it began to look more and more like his mother might not be able to survive the strain on her heart from the disease, even with the arrival of the cure.

Arianne passed Julianna Montes' bed, on her way to Adrian's. There must have been a woman, buried beneath the machinery. But she heard people say there was not much of one left. The infection literally liquefied the insides of a person. Many died from hemorrhages and shock, some died sooner, depending on where the disease chose to assert itself.

The damage was done. Even after the cure cleansed her body of the virus, it left a severely damaged heart.

She sat on a chair next to Adrian's bed. He was pale, and very deeply asleep. The pile of letters he wrote sat on his night table. It was tempting to pick them up and start reading...

She smiled down at his still face. He did not stir when she touched his cheek, ran her delicate finger over the clean lines of his elegant profile, forehead, bridge of nose, down to the tip of his chin where he had an attractive five o' clock shadow.

_This is mine_, she thought to herself, as a child receiving a present on Christmas day. They said he should be fine. It was the greatest gift she had ever received in her life.

His eyes fluttered open, finding her gaze immediately.

"Go to sleep," she told him, softly, smiling.

"I am asleep," he whispered, "This is a dream."

"Then it is a good dream," she said, and the words sounded old, and oddly familiar. She blinked, leaned over, and bent to kiss him, "Sleep..."

"Arwen," he smiled, as his eyes began to lose focus and drift in weariness.

Her heart pounded. That name... it briefly dawned on her that she should be annoyed that she was called by another woman's name. But it sounded like it was hers. Was it... an endearment? Something he had thought to begin calling her, like a nickname?

She put a hand over her wildly beating heart.

_This is a dream..._

She closed her eyes, and her breath hitched as the words descended on her.

_It was a dream, Arwen, nothing more..._

_Nothing more than a dream..._

Her eyes shot open, leaking tears as ages-old memories engulfed her, melding his sleeping face with the empty mask he had worn in death. She left her seat, and fell against him, her head over his chest as he breathed, not caring which wires and tubes she jostled. She held him close and smelled him, and laughed and cried with her fortune that they were here, together.

_I now live a dream_, she realized, holding him tightly.

He groaned a little, stirring awake once again. She looked up at his sleepy face. He did not even open his eyes. But his body shook in a quiet chuckle, and his arms lifted and rested around her back, as he fell back to sleep.

* * *

It felt like a nightmare.

They poked and prodded him in a way that reminded him despairingly of alien abduction movies. He squirmed, and fought, and they stuck him with something and he drifted off to sleep again, groaning that he did not want any tests done.

It must have been the drugs they hit him with, that made him believe his pleas would amount to anything to his tormentors.

_We're trying to make sure you're not ill, Detective Greene_, they would keep saying, in an effort to calm him down. But Legolas always had an aversion to medical attention and hospitals. As a warrior prince the idea of weakness embarrassed him. In the modern age, he feared they would discover his secrets.

He fought them tooth and nail. They sedated him, and when he woke and pulled at the IV's and anything else that had been attached to his body, they decided it would be in his best interest to be restrained.

The days following his rescue unfolded thus. He was out like a light not because he was ill, but because he absolutely refused to be touched and treated, and he struggled like a caged animal.

Later, he opened his eyes to find the face of a friend watching him, and he ceased his struggles and complaints. It was also probably resignation; they had gotten whatever they wanted from him by now. His hands were restrained at the wrists against the railing of his hospital bed.

"Rafe," he said, softly.

The sun streaked from the blinds of the sparse hospital room. The shafts of light hit the IV bags over his head, casting odd-shaped reflections on the walls, and on Rafe's face. He was dressed formally for this time of the day, a dark suit and a grave expression. Montes was sitting on a chair next to his bed, beside the night table where his untouched food was put on a tray.

"You're all right," Montes said to him, an odd cloud settling on his eyes. His gaze was unfamiliar, a mixture of relief, and also somehow mildly cold.

"They said you fight dirty," Montes told him, "Gave a good bunch of orderlies black-eye's. They said you kept saying 'No tests,' and speaking in this quirky lingo no one has ever heard of. They had to tie you up, to keep you from moving and tearing at everything. Everyone's starting to theorize that you must have had childhood trauma, to fear being in hospitals so much. Maybe a family member died, you know, something like that. But I know it's something else."

Greene licked his dry lips, gulped, and cleared his throat. "Do they... do they know, about me?"

"No one knows anything about you, Greene," Montes snapped at him, before regaining his detached cool, "Especially not me."

Montes sighed, closed his eyes as he got up from the seat. "So you're all right. That's all I needed to see."

Greene was confused, he struggled against the bonds on his wrists. "Rafe, I don't..."

"Understand?" his partner snapped at him, "Yeah. That makes two of us."

"Why are you--"

"Why am I wearing this shit rental suit I can be buried in, right?" Montes asked him, dryly, "That must be what you're wondering about. I'm burying my wife this afternoon. Or you know what, scratch that. I'm burying an empty box. Also a rental. They burned her body. Contaminant, and all that. We're doing a memorial though. For the kids."

"Gods..." Greene breathed, realization dawning in his eyes, "I... I am so sorry, Rafe. I--"

"Don't say anything," Montes grated at him, "You can just go on not saying anything. It can't be that hard, especially for you."

Greene's eyes were wide, and searching, "Why are you so angry—"

"You knew, didn't you?" Montes asked him, bitterly, "You knew she was sick."

"I... guessed," Greene admitted, "It was not my secret to tell. But I did my best by you...I cannot regret."

"Yeah, yeah, you do not regret," Montes mocked, "Do you ever, huh? Always so sure, always the goddamn hero, always doing the right goddamn thing."

Greene looked confused, hurt. Montes was annoyed at himself, and his look softened, slightly.

"Listen, man, I..." he hesitated, "I didn't come here to argue with you. I really didn't. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. The Captain had to pull a few strings, no one was allowed to see you. I know you're fine, so now I'm going to go."

"But--" Greene stammered, his hands again, jerking against his bonds. Montes glanced at them, and yet made no move to help him.

"You really have no clue," Montes scoffed at him, shaking his head in disbelief, "You have no clue at all."

"You know you were inarguably the most infected man on the face of the planet," Montes said to him, "There was just no two ways about it. Head to toe, in and out. Are you sore? They pumped that shit out of you, you know. And they flushed it out your eyes and your ears. But you never got it. As you knew you wouldn't. As you promised me you wouldn't. Because you're different, right?

"My wife," his voice wavered as his eyes watered, "My wife... kissed a little girl's head to assure her everything would be all right. It's just a kiss, you know. Days later the kid died, and Julianna followed. The cure came too late. It got to her heart. Her beautiful, generous heart."

His voice broke, and he angrily swiped at the tears that fell in a cascade down his cheeks. "Jesus Christ, Greene. What would it have cost you, huh? What would it have cost you to give a little bit of what you had, to save her?"

"I gave..." Greene was at a loss, "I thought I was giving everything I had..."

"No!" Montes broke him off, "No, don't you dare tell me that. How could you possibly explain to me how it is that you are alive right now? That somehow, all your friends got out of this alive? Yeah, even your doctor friend is still in the land of the fucking living. How can you explain that it was your friends who caught the people behind this? That they were the ones who found and manufactured the cure? You're caught in the bloody middle of this, Greene. I asked you, if there was anything you knew. I asked you, I told you this was my wife and my son, now, no more shitting around. I asked you. And you sat there and took it. And now she's dead."

"What did you want me to do?" Greene asked him, his own anger at the accusation struggling to burst from his sadness and control, "What in the world do you think I could have done?"

"I don't know what you could or could not have done," Montes said, quietly, "You wouldn't have killed her, I know that, I'm not that dumb. It's just that... I don't know. _I don't know_, that's the problem. I don't know you. I don't know what could have happened, now I'll never know. That cure could have come out sooner, or something. It's me, man, not like I'm some stranger. If you had it, she should have come first."

"She would have," Leland said, intensely, "But I did not have it. I _do not_ have it."

"Julianna's dead," Montes spat out, "I wasn't there, you know, that moment she finally slipped away. Can you believe that? I was there and then I left, just an hour, just for a little bit, you know, i didn't think she'd go, without me...You know where I was? I was with the captain, muscling on some people who wouldn't let us see you. They said you were dead, and then you weren't. And I'm your friend, and no one was telling us anything. I had to know. I mean you have other friends, but it didn't at the time feel like you had anybody here. No family, nothing, no one but me. I had to go. You didn't need me after all.

"You got all this... I don't know," Montes hesitated, "Power. I guess. Connections, luck, something. I don't know. I hate that I don't know. I'm not blaming you that she's dead. I'm not blaming you that I went to you when she was dying. I'm not sad that you're fine. And over and above all this I am, glad, to see you're all right. I'm just finding... I don't... I don't _know_ you. And I fucking should know, if anyone. Right? Right? I mean, I thought I was fine with it. That's all right you know, you've always done your own thing, you've had your secrets. But this is just crazy. I don't... I just don't know anything about you."

"Everything that you know about me these last few years is as true as they could be--" Leland began.

"You know how fucking qualified that sounds?" Montes scoffed at him, "Jeez, Greene, up to now? Up to now, you're counting on the same things I've been hearing for years to tide us over?"

Leland stared at him, "It's complicated..."

Montes raised his hand up to silence him, "I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter. You didn't tell me, not when I needed to hear it. I just want out." he paused, took a breath to calm himself, "I already asked for a reassignment."

Greene's brows creased, "Rafe... you're just... maybe you just need time."

"It's not that fucking simple," Montes snapped at him.

Greene looked at him intently, struggled at his bonds.

Montes glanced at them again, and again, deigned to help.

"Get out of them yourself," Montes told him coldly, "I have a feeling you can."

He left the room.

Greene was confused, and beneath the hurt was an anger that was all too... _human_. But he was prepared, to give his friend the time he needed to grieve the loss of his beloved wife.

Greene strained forward, but the bonds were tightly made. He groaned and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head toward the seat Rafe had vacated. He focused on the tray of food on his night table.

Greene leaned forward, straining his neck. With his teeth, he pulled the edge of the tray toward him. He picked up the fork with his teeth, and spat it toward his bound right hand. His fingers caught it cleanly.

He stared up at the ceiling, as his hand almost absently assessed the lock, and his fingers adroitly made use of the fork to set himself free.

* * *

They kind of just opened the gates to the rest of the world again, though it was quite plain to see that no one will be rushing to get back inside California for awhile.

Elrohir, Elladan, Mithrandir, Celebrian, Elrond, Haldir, Gimli and Boromir flew in to Los Angeles, first class, at ridiculously discounted rates, and stayed in the suites of a 5-star hotel, also at shamelessly discounted rates.

They ended up staying in the same hotel that Arianne Underhill's manager had booked her in, though she spent most of her time in the nearby hospital where her boyfriend was recuperating.

Mithrandir, Haldir, Gimli and Boromir offered to check the group in and take care of the luggages, leaving the Peredhils to seek out their long-lost Arwen in the coffee shop, where she said she said she would be waiting for them.

Elrohir and Elladan walked behind their parents. Elrond looked nervous. He changed clothes twice on the plane. He said he wanted to look his best. He felt under-dressed in the designer slacks and polo shirt he was wearing. His wife said he looked "smashing-" she picked up the word from a bunch of baby-boomers who wanted to pick _her_ up- and he settled down at last.

Elrohir wanted to walk faster. He picked up his pace, accidentally stepping on his father's very expensive heel. Elrond glanced at him irritably, and he smiled sheepishly at his _ada_, just before his mother broke from their group and ran blindly to embrace a stunned, smiling, drop-dead-gorgeous woman who looked nothing like her sister, until her eyes settled on him.

His breath went out of his body in a _whoosh_! He instinctively grabbed Elladan's hand, an action he hasn't done since they were very little children. Elladan clutched back tightly, before he released Elrohir's hand and stepped toward his mother and sister, encasing the both of them in an embrace. Elrohir did not think twice, and dived in with a crying laugh.

They cried, they laughed, and their father watched them with tears in his eyes. The people in the room were looking at them. An enterprising photographer took a few shots. It would make for a great human interest story, about a family reunited after the quarantine or something, just a photo with a story that he can sell to Time, or Newsweek. It wouldn't take him long to realize the beautiful young woman in the photograph would hike up that photograph's price in the European tabloids astronomically.

Celebrian, Elrohir and Elladan stepped away from Arwen, and made room for Elrond, who closed in and stopped a breath from his daughter. She was trembling, as she looked at him with eyes that shone with her love.

_She is so heartbreakingly beautiful_, he thought, as his eyes raked hungrily over her face. Not Arwen's face, surely, but it was Arwen, nonetheless, in her demeanor, in her look, in her... _spirit_, that spirit that blazed from her gaze.

'You have my love, father...' she told him in his beloved language, the language that he suddenly could not find. The words had abandoned him. He pulled her close and embraced her. She cried on his designer clothes, the clothes he thought long and hard about. He thought it was the best feeling in the world.

* * *

They were discharged from the hospital at approximately the same time.

Arwen, Boromir, Elrond and Elladan picked up Aragorn. The European paparazzi finally caught up with the AWOL supermodel by this time, and trailed her and her boyfriend as they dove into the waiting car. Elrohir, Mithrandir, Harding and Goran picked up Legolas from another hospital, also crowded by reporters eager to check on health updates for the heroic Lieutenant Greene.

The elf sighed, as the oppressive camera lights flashed on his face, even from beneath the tinted windows of the rental car. Gimli sat beside him, and on the other side of the backseat, Mithrandir was whistling softly.

"So much for living quietly, eh, old friend?" Elrohir asked, glancing at him from the rear view mirror.

"Don't I know it," Legolas replied. He looked troubled.

"Are you feeling ill?" Gimli asked him, brows creasing. He was the one who had heard about Legolas' death first. It being that he was a very clever hacker, he was also the first to discover it was misinformation. Still, he was very worried.

"No," Legolas assured him quickly, "I'm just... I'm just surprised, I guess, that no one said anything about me, being different. I mean they checked my blood. They re-checked it. They checked me inside out. They flushed out my ears, and these," he pointed to the synthetic tips that covered the sharp ends of his ears, "these came off. A nurse kind of sheepishly gave them back to me a few days ago. Someone would have found out I was... not like everybody else... But they released me. And nobody said anything."

"Maybe they weren't investigating closely enough to see the genetic components," Elrohir said, thoughtfully, as he drove, "Maybe they were just looking for Ebola, and decided everything was normal the moment they didn't find it. I mean what else would they have tested you for, right?"

"I guess," Legolas murmured, not entirely convinced.

"Well you're here," Gimli said with finality, "That is the important thing."

"It's great that they came up with a cure," Legolas said, "Saved a lot of lives. Including – _especially_ – Aragorn's."

Gimli groaned.

"I forgot," Elrohir said with a light in his eyes, "No one's been allowed to see you, _mellon-nin_, we tried, you know that, and the first we heard from you was when you called for a pick-up. You know it was _ada_ who came up with a cure. With a little bit of elven genetics, I might add."

Legolas' brows raised, "But how did you...? I mean, does the world know about us, now? Did I miss something...?"

"The damn dwarf smuggled a sample of Ebola by sticking himself with a needle," Haldir bristled from the front passenger seat.

"Are you still mad at me?!" the dwarf retorted.

"Can't you tell?!"

"Ai," groaned Gandalf, looking at Elrohir disapprovingly, "You really should not have started with this."

"But Leggy needs to know," said Elrohir, over the growls and sputters from the two Interpol agents, "Gimli made it appear as if the perpetrator of this whole attack sent Boromir a cure. People bought it, I guess, because they'd rather believe she was not an evil person. Well anyway, we sent them enough concentrated serum to cure a few hundred people. Just enough, you know, to stave off the current crisis. Give them time to seriously focus on coming up with their own cure. No one knows about us just yet, old friend. Relax."

Legolas shifted, uncertainly, before turning to the ex-dwarf beside him. "So you're well, _mellon-nin_?"

"I'm fine!" Gimli snapped, "Everyone should drop it. I was being careful!"

Legolas opened his mouth to say something more, but Gandalf threw him a pleading look that silenced him.

_Please don't go there_, his eyes seemed to beg. Legolas supposed that the wizard had already had enough of days of arguments between Haldir and Goran that the topic provoked.

They drove back to the hotel, where they met the rest of the group for a late lunch hosted by the Peredhils. A long table at a corner of the hotel's priciest French restaurant was set up and waiting when they arrived. Celebrian's taste was exquisite, as the occasion demanded nothing short of the very, very best.

The moment Leland Greene's party entered the room, the occupants-- guests, waiters, chefs, everyone, recognized him and rose in their seats and applauded his heroic actions. He smiled at them sheepishly. His cheeks were wildly flushed with embarrassment. He gave them an odd wave, before he ducked his head and walked toward their table faster.

"You old fool," Aragorn grinned at him, intercepting his distracted walking and engulfing him in a hearty embrace. "I heard you died!"

Legolas laughed, and returned the hug. He pulled away from his beloved friend, to look at his beaming face. "I heard you finally have a girlfriend."

Her melodious laughter broke the exchange, and she bullied her beloved Aragorn aside as she pressed a kiss to Legolas' cheek, and looked at him wryly.

"Arwen," Legolas immediately realized, "You have... reclaimed yourself?"

"Good as new," she grinned at him.

"Today is a good day," he declared, almost disbelieving his luck, before turning toward Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian. He swept them a slight bow.

"My Lord," he said to Elrond, "The world is much blessed by your timely arrival."

"It is good to see you, Legolas," Lord Elrond said, "Your father misses you so. You must see him soon."

"I believe I will," Legolas said wistfully, "How was your return trip? The gods gave me a shipwreck."

Celebrian chuckled at him, "We had a peaceful voyage in excellent weather, I am sorry to say, young Greenleaf."

"Maybe that's because they asked nicely," Elladan joked.

"We were robed oddly for this day and time, I suppose," Celebrian continued, "We docked ashore, asked where Imladris was. Elrohir said we must have looked like a traveling circus. But we were fortunate our sons retained the name of the Estate, and were led through eventually."

"It's because mom smiled at them," Elrohir said, distastefully, before turning to her mother, "I warned you about that already, right?"

She waved at him, as if his concerns did not bother her at all.

Legolas laughed, as they all settled down to eat.

* * *

Funny thing, about being the sort of hero that he was.

When he entered the room, they applauded. When he sat down to eat, the paranoia of the other patrons quickly took over, and all around them people began asking for their bills and leaving. They just might catch Ebola after all, from, inarguably, the most-infected-man-on-the-planet.

Legolas didn't care; he noticed because he had sharp ears, but he did not care. It was an expected reception. As a matter of fact, his Captain told him not to go to work for while. He'll make a note of hiding out for a few weeks. Give everyone time to forget about him. Which was ridiculously optimistic, of course, he knew that. Still... one hoped.

He sat between Aragorn and Gimli over the wonderfully extended lunch. The conversation of friends surrounded him, reassuringly, tearing him from his other worries for a brief while.

_Rafe..._, he thought with regret. He would have to visit, soon. See how the kids are doing. Express his condolences to the family. Maybe before going home tonight.

The sadness mixed with his worry, that his secret had been discovered. _How long can any of this last_, he wondered.

Mithrandir was sitting across from him, watching his face. Harding was seated by the wizard, directly across from Gimli. Arwen was on his other side, across from Aragorn. The Interpol agents were still arguing. The reunited lovers were staring at each other with a manic gleam in their eyes.

"Oh but Master Dwarf," Celebrian said, "Haldir is angry only because he was very much worried about you."

"But he keeps blaming me about a non-existent disaster--"

"That could have happened!" Haldir insisted.

"Except it didn't!" the ex-dwarf retorted, "Because I was careful!"

"Which changes nothing about the fact that he cares very deeply for you," Celebrian said, "Don't you, Haldir?"

Gimli looked at the ex-elf wryly. _Yeah, she's as beautiful and persistent as her mother, Harding. Try and get out of that one_.

"I suppose," the Interpol admitted, grudgingly.

"Ha!" Gimli exclaimed triumphantly.

But Celebrian was not done yet, "An admission of truth that does not exempt you from apology, master dwarf. As your work superior, and as a friend who cares for you and shares the same friendships that you have, he should have been made aware of your actions."

Gimli frowned. He muttered something unintelligibly.

"What?" Harding asked him, innocently.

"I'm sorry!" the dwarf exclaimed, exasperated, "Are we all happy?"

Elrohir grinned at the exchange, looking over at his brother. "Oh, she is good, isn't she?"

"My Lady had excellent practice raising the lot of you," Aragorn laughed at the twins.

"I wish the hobbits were here," Gimli reflected, "Don't you think, elf? They know how to make a party."

"We'll see them soon, won't we?" Arwen asked, smiling at Aragorn indulgently, "It might be time...?"

"I've been waiting for you to say that," he said, before tapping his knife against his wine glass, calling for silence.

"Don't bother, Aragorn!" Elladan exclaimed jovially, "You're marrying her, we know!"

"About damn time too!" Brad called out.

Aragorn looked at Arwen helplessly. His eyes were shining, as they turned toward Elrond. The older elf gave him a generous smile, and a welcoming nod.

"So ah..." Aragorn grinned, "Vegas? Tonight?"

Elrohir hooted. "All right! I haven't been there in _ages_! Let's start drinking now!"

"I'm calling the hobbits," Gimli declared, as he grabbed his mobile phone, "And the Rigares too."

"You have to call your mother," Brad reminded Aragorn, "I'm calling up my brother."

"I'm calling Ana," Elladan said, "She can go with grandmother and grandfather."

Mobile phones were out in force in no time.

_I have no one to call_, Legolas thought, sadly.

* * *

"What do you mean you'll have to check if you're safe to fly?" Elladan asked his finance, getting up from his seat, "Are you all right?"

Elrohir glanced at his brother, worriedly, hearing the sharp note in his voice.

"What...?" Elladan breathed, "What do you mean... but...Oh god. Oh...god..."

He sank to sit on an empty table. "Ana..."

"'Dan...?" Elrohir asked him, worriedly.

"I'm going to be a dad!" Elladan suddenly exclaimed, shooting to his feet, and pumping his fist in the air. He looked manic, and happy, and absolutely terrified, "I'm going to be a dad!"

He grabbed his father off his seat and embraced him, "I'm going to be a dad!"

Elrohir looked at him, stunned. His mother rose from her seat, reclaimed the phone from Elladan's hands, and spoke in quiet, delighted tones to her future daughter-in-law.

"I'm going to be a dad!" Elladan said again, as he turned toward Elrohir, "I'm going to be a dad!"

"Her father is going to kill you," Elrohir laughed, as he sniffed and hugged his twin. He was so unbearably happy, but why was he crying?!

"Her dad is going to kill me," Elladan agreed, blinking, "Elrohir, you're right. Her dad is going to kill me."

His companions burst into laughter. The table was full of laughter and tears. They felt so delectably alive.

_Today is a good day_, Legolas thought again.

* * *

The World Wide Web:

Correspondence from Fellowship yahoogroups . com

Subject: Re:Re: Vegas Wedding Photos Uploaded

The Took Wrote:

I still maintain I was not drunk in that photograph!

* * *

Mark Brandy wrote:

I think they were trying to save you from more embarrassment by saying you were drunk, Pip. No thinking person in his right mind would have done that.

Great party, Aragorn! The best! I cannot wait until we all get together again!

* * *

Elladan wrote:

I second Merry's commentary (not about Pippin; I honestly do think he was drunk in that photo). What a celebration, Estel, truly. I cannot wait for my own wedding.

Ana and I decided to push the date back, until after she gives birth. That way, our child can attend also, and it can be an even more lavish event.

Besides, you know women and their wedding dresses. She says she cannot find a decent wedding gown, her size keeps changing! Her doctors also advised her not to strain herself. She is not so very young anymore and it might pose dangers.

* * *

Anatalia wrote:

My love. A word to the wise. Please remember that your delinquent brother recently added me to the list. Watch your words very, very carefully.

* * *

ElrohirSeriouslyRocks wrote:

Hi 'Dan. Yeah, I added Ana in, isn't that great?

* * *

Elladan wrote:

Not... at the moment.

* * *

THE END

May 9, 2007

* * *


	21. Afterword and Preview of FEE3

**CONTENTS:**

**I. For Every Evil 2 in the FEE Trilogy**

** A. The Evolution of the Plot**

** B. Recurring Themes**

** (1) A Man's Gotta Do What a Man's Gotta Do...**

** (2) Their Problems Won't Amount to a Hill of Beans in This World**

** C. A Note on Geography**

**II. The -Isms**

** A. Bioterrorism**

** B. Extreme Environmentalism**

**III. Notes on Some Characters**

**IV. The Original Characters**

**V. Massive Thanks and Replies**

**VI. A Preview of For Every Evil 3**

**

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES/ AFTERWORD

* * *

**

**I. For Every Evil 2 in the FEE Trilogy**

**A. The Evolution of the Plot**

The first ever licks of FEE2 to be publicly released was in mid-2004, as a teaser posted at the end of For Every Evil 1:

_"__For Every Evil 2 is going to tackle bioterrorism. An artificially engineered epidemic hits the hospital where Adrian Aarons (Aragorn) works, and everyone inside is quarantined. This means we'll be seeing Brad (Boromir) and Fred (Faramir) at work with Aragorn. We'll also see an outpatient who was incidentally at the wrong place at the wrong time (or the right one?)-- Arianne Underhill, a movie star, and also incidentally the reincarnation of the Evenstar (I figured, modern 'royalty'). We'll see romance and medical drama in the hospital. Outside it, we'll see action and mystery with Leland Greene (Legolas) hard at work trailing a suspect and working with Horace Harding (Haldir) of Interpol, and the agency's rawest recruit, Jimmy Goran (Gimli). Far from L.A. and in Europe, we'll see a few more elves have come from Valinor to go to a wedding: Anatalia Craxi now has to meet the parents of fiancée Elladan, as he has to sort out his differences with her protective father Marcelo. I also liked the idea of tossing this renewed conflict on Elrond, about the immortal child loving a human, so the topic will be revisited."_

I'm certain you'd agree when I say we veered away from this teaser drastically since it's post almost three years ago.

(1) Boromir no longer works with Aragorn – I found this an important development for two reasons. The first being that I wanted the character to have much more depth and desire for freedom from the past. He was blazing his own trail now. The second reason is that I figured no Ebola movie is complete without a sprinkling of Africa. There's a beat to it, a kind of romance of adventure and the exotic. I opened up the story there and was immediately excited by the scale of it, just by starting in Africa.

(2) Faramir did not come into the picture at all – As I have mentioned before, the story is complicated enough without having to force myself to include characters that couldn't figure in the plot. Faramir was one of those characters fro FEE2.

(3) Legolas never directly works with Haldir and Gimli – I reviewed the chains of command and determined that their independent approaches was much more realistic. Legolas, being part of the police department, had more localized concerns. As a matter of fact, the moment the situation began to emerge as a national security issue with possible ties overseas, the command of the case was shifted to the FBI. Interpol, on the other hand, had to liaise with a partner country's NCB for local work. There seemed too many layers between them. I toyed with the idea of having them work together, but it felt too 'renegade' and indulgent; the thing about the modern world that I felt was important to convey in terms of the Fellowship's place in it is that, well simply put, it doesn't rely on them as much as it used to. This idea will be tackled more in the notes below, and will figure prominently all the more in FEE3.

(4) We never quite see the conflict in Elrond, as greater problems descended on the lot of them. I was actually a bit torn about this. I mean, wow, another mortal-immortal union must be giving a lot of people renewed headaches. But it felt wrong to think about this when, say, Aragorn was sick or something. So I skipped on this and had Elrond focus on something else: his healing, which is actually a preoccupation for fanfic writers and readers out there.

**B. Recurring Themes**

There are a few basic themes running through this story and this is deeply embedded in each of the characters.

**(1) A Man's Gotta Do What a Man's Gotta Do...** - This is probably the crudest, simplest way I can think of to explain the first recurring theme. People throughout the fic have to keep thinking about whether or not what they are doing is right.

In Chapter 10: Black and White, Anatalia and Galadriel have a more-or-less encouraging talk about her upcoming marriage to Elladan:

_"Am I doing the right thing?" Ana asked._

_"Would you do otherwise even if it weren't?" Galadriel countered, "You can only do what you feel is right, when you feel it is right. The world cannot demand more of us."_

In Chapter 15: Cure, Elladan and Elrohir have a quick debate on whether or not they should share to the world a cure for Ebola that involved the 'sharing' of elven genes:

_"We're not God, brother," Elladan breathed, "We cannot play those games. Not to mention I have no idea how to get such a cure out there without explaining where it's from and how we came about it. I mean I'm sure it works, this is Ada. But I can't see how..." _

_"But we can't just sit on it either and know what it can do and not share it," Elrohir said, "As you said, we are not God, who knows and watches. Can you sit on this, knowing what it is?"_

In Chapter 11: Plan B, Harding interrogates YinYang:

_"I wasn't fooling around," YinYang said, "When I said I liked you best. You want to know why?"_

_"Oh for god's sake, indulge me."_

_"Because if it should come down to it," YinYang said, "You'd kill me to find out what I know. I think. I think you'd really kill me for what I know. I'm almost tempted to see if I'm right. I admire that kind of conviction. What do they do to you if you hurt me?"_

_"Well you won't get released that's for certain," Harding replied, "Even if I were brutal to you. We're bound by different laws."_

_"I know," YinYang waved coolly at the issue, "I meant you, Agent Harding. Listen closer. What do they do to you?"_

_"I'll get slapped with a reprimand," Harding replied, "Maybe a demotion. Undoubtedly a dent in the record. Undoubtedly a career setback. Maybe worse, depending on what I do and who finds out. Most will be relieved I did what I had to. Some will not be as pleased with me..."_

_"I read somewhere," said YinYang, "That reputation is what other people think of you, and honor is what you know about yourself. I think... you have a very keen awareness of who you are, what you want, and what you are willing to pay."_

_"What about it?"_

_"As I said," YinYang repeated, "I admire that kind of conviction."_

The thing about reputation and honor is actually one of my favorite quotes from Lois McMaster Bujold, from whose works I even picked up the "Mirrordance" ID, in honor of her. She is so gifted, and her approach to sharing philosophies like that is so clever and natural. The idea about just doing what you can while you can is probably even better encased by another one of her ideas. A guy is regretting not killing a woman who would eventually become a murderess in her sleep. His friend tells him that 'the arrow of justice flies one way;' you cannot regret killing her then because she wouldn't have deserved it at the time. You know those 'What would you do if you met a young Adolf Hitler?' questions? I think the idea of justice being bound by time should be considered, although I'm sure this is very much open for debate.

Nevertheless, the big idea here in these three chapters and in these major characters is that there are some things you just have to do, while you can, if you believe in them hard enough. Along the length of the fic, you will see the same conviction in: Legolas, who tries to keep Montes alive while not telling him about his wife, in Gimli when he infects himself to find a cure for Aragorn, in Haldir when he ditches procedure in order to get answers out of YinYang, and of course, in tragic Chandra Bouvier.

**(2) Their Problems Won't Amount to a Hill of Beans in This World –** is another simple statement plucked from pop culture to capture the second theme. I feel the idea of the world not being too heavily reliant on the Fellowship is a very important one. This is, after all, a new world, and very different.

As I've mentioned before, the role of FEE2 in the trilogy is to be no-holds-barred modern. And the modern world has red tape and paper trails. It's a large, highly integrated world where the actions of one hero is the product of the effort of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people.

In FEE2, our heroes are not heroes and big leaders. I even used positions to illustrate their role in the world; they are often on the sidelines in situation meetings, they have bosses to answer to, they have a command structure to follow. I think this is best illustrated in Legolas' words to Elrohir in Chapter 9: The Center of The world:

_"I was in the standing room. I spoke up once, very briefly, from the sidelines, and only because I was asked."_

_"Not what you're used to, eh?" Elrohir chided._

_"Actually I've been living like this for years," the blond elf corrected him, "We cannot live very loudly these days."_

Ironically, it must be noted that the chapter is entitled "The Center of the World." This is still the Fellowship, after all, trouble follows them around, haha. I had to find a healthy mix of the sidelines and the spotlight. I wanted to portray modern heroism as 'ordinary people in extraordinary situations' that allows them to act in defining ways. I mean, these are "ordinary people:" a cop, a doctor, a businessman, a college student... We're taking LOTR into modern times, so they'd have to have the stellar, yet ordinary quality of modern heroes.

As Aragorn said in Chapter 8: Code Black:

_Or perhaps... was it hubris to think that the history of ol' Aragorn still counted for anything in this modern world? Could he not be simply... here? Drink coffee, eat a burger, fall in love?_

They are ordinary people. The world doesn't count solely on them. This idea is opened in FEE2, but will figure more prominently in FEE3, where many of our heroes will be... you know what, haha, I'll keep that to myself for awhile :)

**C. A Note on Geography**

It's all about scale, haha... I've never been to Austria, or Africa, or California. What we have in FEE are research-based materials. A few geographical aspects you may wish to note though:

(1) How LOTR kingdoms might match with modern European countries, as previously discussed in FEE1:

_"__Okay, guys. Grab a map of Europe and grab your map of Arda 'cos this is going to be a tough one to explain :) I read that Tolkien's Middle-Earth is likely just Europe, which once was called Middel-Erthe, back when they considered themselves the center of the world. I read that Tolkien used the term also to give immediate perceptions just by giving directions; in old lore, the idea of the 'East' was as exotic and threatening as they were in Tolkien's tales. It was also hypothesized that Tolkien's England must have been Hobbiton, as in Oxford! So although I am profoundly unsure and not particularly well-versed in this issue, I made Rivendell Austria, just by a hypothesized location, imagining the old Middle-Earth shifting and moving to become present Europe in my head. Mirkwood I imagined to have shifted far northwards, maybe Norway, Sweden, Finland. Gondor I imagined to be Greece and Rome once joined together by virtue of location and because these are the two old great European empires. Rohan is now Switzerland, by location and because Switzerland was once part of Rome and Rohan was once part of Gondor. Mordor I made out to have sunken beneath the Black Sea, by location, by implied meanings, and because in the movie the land just sank, and also by reference to the Sea of Rhun which I now consider to be the Sea of Azov, etc., etc. The countries situated are not all that important, though I put them in because they were fun to think of. If more readings on Tolkien yield that Middle-Earth and Europe are not analogous, then consider the piece a profound AU then :) I'm very flexible, haha._"

(2)I wanted the beat of Africa but I might have romanticized it too much, which is a constant fear or me. I'd hate someone from, say, Kenya to one day pick up FEE2 and laugh about how wrong I was about everything, but my depiction of Africa is borne out of a sincere appreciation for its richness. A few actual places and reputations that captivated me include the following:

Kinshasa Highway and the theories relating it to AIDS do exist, by the way. Lake Victoria having isles used as quarters by smugglers is also a widely-held theory. The Horo-horo is also actually prone to piracy. The Kasensero Village is also an actual place with a reputation for having been ravaged by disease.

Kwisha Isle is a fictional place, by the way :)

(3) As for California, the LA Harbor is an actual place and is actually one of the most important ports in the country. San Pedro is also an actual place by the harbor. The port security issues are not particular to the LA Harbor in real life, but it is definitely an honest-to-goodness issue for ports in the U.S. In general.

**

* * *

****II. The -Isms**

**A. Bioterrorism**

FEE2 is like my personal salute to the great Richard Preston. Please pick up his black biology trilogy: The Hot Zone, The Cobra Event and The Demon in the Freezer. Unbelievable stuff. If you read the Hot Zone in particular, you'll see shades of thoughts that I used in FEE2. He is absolutely brilliant. I read that book and just curled in on my covers that night, I was so freaked out. I am also very highly paranoid about disease and germs, now. Thank you Mr. Preston for driving me insane. I know I've been telling people since FEE1 to pick up his books but it's just wildly fascinating work. FEE2 will fade to nothing in comparison.

Okay, Bioterrorism. Like many realistic elements in FEE2, this is an honest-to-goodness threat. Everybody knows that. It is, interestingly enough, not an altogether new one. Everything from giving smallpox-infected blankets to the American Indians, to Hannibal throwing venomous snakes to his foes, animal carcasses thrown in wells during the Civil War, scorpions on a jar thrown over the forts of Romans, to the anthrax letters post-9/11. People have been doing this for ages.

The terrifying thing about bioterrorism now, though, is that the connectivity of the world will dramatically decrease the time it takes for a disease to spread everywhere in the world. It used to take, say, a year for a virulent, dangerous strain of flu to go around the world. Present connectivity – roads, planes, other forms of transport, and especially the trend to urbanization, are posing dangers in the wide and quick spread of dangerous diseases.

The ironic thing, though, is that the connectivity that makes this dangerous is also what may be protecting us from from an aggressive bioterrorist attack. To attempt to take down a foe in such a way is also to endanger the self. There is a dangerous balance to it, a kind-of justice. Can you eat what you dish out? As was mentioned in the story, the target is _everyone_.

**B. Extreme Environmentalism**

An interesting thing some may wish to note: in FEE1 and FEE2, there are no real villains. In FEE1, Grima Wormtongue, unlikely mad genius from LOTR, becomes the ultimate foe in his desire to veer away from his past. I did not at all set out to make him evil. The same can be said of our FEE2 masterminds, Chandra Bouvier and YinYang. More will be said of them in the character bio's below.

Is it plain to see that this fic started out with no villain? As I was writing the YinYang interrogations, it felt too wide already to involve governments and conspiracies. I decided to make the cause more intimate, but just as important. I also wanted to be sure I wouldn't offend particular nationalities by bringing in the politics of the thing. But of course, politics still managed to leak out on the environmental issue, because a lot of it inextricably has a lot to do with political will.

Are the things Chandra Bouvier said to Brad Greer in Chapter 14: You Will Ask God Why true? Yes, they are. We are focused on economic growth. Inextricably, this does involve drawing on limited resources. Many earth-friendly items are indeed more expensive. Many earth-friendly processes are also more expensive, even if you spread out the development costs for the long-run. We are consumers, and many of us are parasitic in our approach. It is not very hard to believe that some people feel we're headed for a self-made catastrophe.

These are all widely-held beliefs and themes. They've spawned books, movies, foundations, and what have you's. They have spawned great activists and lobbyists. But occasionally, they have also created extremists. Chandra is the extreme extremist. Her beliefs may be sound, but her methods border on the manic. Her serious approach to work, her loneliness is almost deliciously sociopathic. Now is she crazy? I'm not sure myself :)

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****III. Notes on Some Characters**

**A. Legolas / Leland Greene - **Obviously my favorite character. I FEE2 though, I think it's fairly indisputable that this is Leland Greene's story, over Legolas.' This is Leland's city, his work, and it is often his name that I used. The question, I suppose, is that is there really such a big difference between the two?

It might be noticeable that Leland Greene already features some distinctly human characteristics. He is flawed when it comes to women, he gets angry, he is not as impervious. I wanted the character to feel like he belongs down the street, you know... although of course, there is that unshakable elven trait of being exceptionally good at his job. But I incorporated a sense of his arrogance and darkness too.

I'm unsure if anyone noticed, but I made this come out in relation to Rafael Montes. He gets angry about being doubted. He gets offended, and defensive. This guy has been around for ages, he doesn't see why he has to justify himself to anybody. And underlying his strength of course, is his complete fear of discovery.

My favorite Leland Greene scenes are actually from Chapter 7: Designs and from Chapter 19: Casualties. The ease of his handling of the gang members who tried to ambush him in his house in "Designs," and his detached cool was delicious to write. There was just no doubt in his mind about how much better he was than them. Some would say it's a gift for calm but the dark side to that would be his arrogance. The quiet menace of "Casualties," on the other hand, was also symbolic for me:

_"Get out of them yourself," Montes told him coldly, "I have a feeling you can."_

_Greene was confused, and beneath the hurt was an anger that was all too... human. But he was prepared, to give his friend the time he needed to grieve the loss of his beloved wife. _

_Greene focused on the tray of food on his night table... He leaned forward, straining his neck. With his teeth, he pulled the edge of the tray toward him. He picked up the fork with his teeth, and spat it toward his bound right hand. His fingers caught it cleanly._

_He stared up at the ceiling, as his hand almost absently assessed the lock, and his fingers adroitly made use of the fork to set himself free._

Again, just the ease by which he freed himself, after his suspicious friend told him that he can't be trusted, was so much fun to write. It was just symbolic for me of the things Montes doesn't know about Greene. They were great friends, but the death of Montes' wife magnified the gap between them, turning the other's feelings from curiosity to distrust.

But of course, the elf is still the apple of my eye, haha, can you tell? I just like putting flaws on him because it adds dimension. This can be spotted in all my other fics, of course, of which my favorite is actually the fairly unpopular "Love, War."

Flaws add character, but of course I added in a few "perfect elf" moments that we all expect to be around also. He's still the smartest, fastest, hardest working guy of the bunch for me. He is also still very self-sacrificing. When he said he thought he was already giving everything he had, he sorely meant it. The thing with the Montes Situation is that ultimately, it was still not enough.

I told you FEE2 would be darker, haha. Btw, who else was amused that I wrote a foul-mouthed elf, haha...

As a side note, I wonder if Orlando Bloom fans who read FEE2 caught the familiarity of the words "I had friends!" which Leland Greene retorted to Montes in Chapter 10: Black and White. I picked it up as an in-joke for those who have seen the film "Elizabethtown." These are of course, not the exact words but I hope the line reminded you of the indignant look on his face.

**B. Aragorn / Adrian Aarons - **Oh poor confused Doctor Aarons. Playing way out of his league, haha. She knows him inside out, it was a losing battle from the get-go. His main role in this story was to be taken over by Arwen Undomiel, haha... But I figured, he asked for it at the beginning, right?

The thing about Aragorn is that he's always so sure about what he's supposed to do. Only two things derailed him in LOTR-- the path of the King, and the love of the Evenstar. When he took up his sword to claim his destiny, these two things were entwined and made clear his role. In FEE1, the King returned, despite the initial hesitations of the hero. In FEE2, his queen makes it known, unequivocally, that she's here to join him.

His initial hesitations were to me, not that hard to fathom. True, he's been waiting for her forever, why did he have to be a dismissive idiot? But then again, he brought her death too-- his and ultimately her own. The second chances they've had in life point to the possibility of change. Ultimately though, he comes to the realization of his own normalcy and finiteness, in Chapter 8: Code Black:

_But she is human now, like you, another part of him reasoned, We'll no longer be plagued by the inescapable thought that one of us will die, ahead of the other, fated to be apart. We can have a heaven together, and we can have each other for a glorious lifetime, in the meantime. Many people, they live like that. And they age wonderfully, the grooves of the laughter they enjoyed etched deeper and deeper into their faces, as if they could only grow happier and happier. And I cannot say the lives they have led is lesser, even if it were shorter._

_But he was not like everyone else. At least, he did not at the moment think so. There was a high probability of him getting her killed in some other fashion. That was his life... even after ages and ages, and centuries of Aragorn 'asleep,' that fate was able to find him in Adrian Aarons. This is his life..._

_Isn't it?_

_Or perhaps... was it hubris to think that the history of ol' Aragorn still counted for anything in this modern world? Could he not be simply... here? Drink coffee, eat a burger, fall in love?_

This is a bit like what Galadriel tells Anatalia in one of the central themes in the story. The world cannot demand more of you than the choices you make in the here and now. And so he chooses his love :)

**C. Arwen / Arianne Underhill – **Model-slash-actress? Model-slash-actress? It might sound crazy, but what is a drop-dead-gorgeous woman to be best-known-for nowadays? I also wanted to give her the feeling of 'elevation.' The same way the Evenstar was not merely beautiful but also had an element of being famous, un-reachable. Arianne Underhill therefore became your gorgeous, perfect, unassuming celebrity.

An important thing to note, which I'm sure many readers have already mentioned, is that Arianne Underhill does not look like Arwen; I think I made the almost-lethal mistake of making Adrian Aaron's mother look like Arwen, so that would have been pretty creepy. So she has her own face, I just gave them the same aura. The Arwen-looks-like-my-mother thing will also have it's own use in FEE3, where I very much intend to have Elrond meet her, and see what his daughter's choices have led her descendants. So hopefully, somehow it will all work out :)

**D. Elrohir and Elladan - **Can everybody tell I love writing about these guys? It's so so strange, how he somehow just came alive for me, considering there is actually very little official information on the twins out there. So same old drill: Elrohir is a bit more reckless because I like his wacky name, and Elladan's in contrast sounds more calm and urbane.

At first, I found my depiction of the twins to seem as if it was Elrohir who was adapting to the world better. I myself was surprised when I wrote that scene in Chapter 13: God's Art, when Anatalia was making an observation about the twins:

_"I just want a peaceful life like everyone else's," Elladan said softly, searching her eyes. She met his lonely gaze squarely. Centuries of thought and wisdom were etched in them, she noted. Century after century of the things he's seen and lived._

_She marveled then, at his heretofore under-recognized desperate yearning for normalcy. At the onset, it seemed to her that it was Elrohir who embraced the modern world more; him and his open attitude, his video game vices, his fast cars. Elladan was more standoffish, more reserved. She had once thought him aloof. He walked in an unearthly fashion, looked at things with an unearthly eye. It was as if he belonged elsewhere. But in his eyes this day, she noted his love of the world, his desire to be simply one within it. It was he who had hidden his ears, instead of flaunting them as Elrohir had. It was he who finally broke his isolation and sought out a wife, dreamed of making a family. _

_Like everyone else..._

_He gripped her arms like a lifeline. As if she was going to escape._

I wonder if anyone else thought like this until I wrote it? That the standoffish one was actually the one who wanted it more? Note also that in the last scene, Elladan repeatedly says he's going to be a 'dad.' Not "Ada," not "Father." The informal, colloquial "dad" to emphasize the normalcy he believes he is about to have. I wonder if it was noted but anyway, it is what it is :)

I actually also toyed for the longest time about pairing up Elrohir with Waitress Jackie from FEE1. But then FEE3 started to get a much firmer shape and the idea just went nowhere. Who knows where all this goes though, haha...

**F. Gimli / Jimmy Goran - **Don't the Goran/Harding scenes remind you of Gimli and Legolas? I love the idea of that. One of my favorite lines from FEE1 is when Harding tells Goran that when he regains his memories, he'll realize he's been mistaking him for another pompous blond fellow. I think this somehow just came into fruition all the more. It just morphed into this situation, especially since I couldn't find any creative reason to put Goran in L.A., just so he could be with his best friend (I mean Greene was already occupied by Montes and Aarons after all). The best of friends remain so even at a distance, anyway, but of course, Goran had to magnetize toward the same kind of guy, which is why he and Harding got along so well.

So hacker Gimli shares his brilliance left and right in this fic. Most of the time, Gimli is regarded as a bit of a comic. I really hope I found a fair cross between the charm of that and the hard-working smarts I strongly feel he has. I've always depicted him as fairly perceptive. I think he'd have to be, to contend with the likes of Legolas. But I also found the need to feature his recklessness and flair, and the love he has for his friends. This is why he became the guy who gives himself Ebola to find a cure for a friend. Interestingly enough, in the original format of this story, the guy who gives himself Ebola was actually Brad Greer. In the profiling below, you'll see why this was changed.

**G. Haldir / Horace Harding - **Agent Horace Harding. I've been told I had a flair for writing a pompous yet likable Haldir and I pride myself very much with that. I think I get very indulgent, writing about him. He is just so _cool_. He always knows what he is doing, always knows what to say and what to do. I love it that he has shady connections, can speak to people in their own languages, and has even dated sisters! I wanted to depict him as that dreamy secret-agent, the James Bond that Goran wanted to be, that most men would want to be.

Like James Bond, he's very driven, and unafraid of taking a risk. I loved writing the interrogation scenes of him and YinYang, and how he was willing to play dirty to get the things that he wants.

Still... I also had to write him as a man who was a friend to others. He gives in to Gimli's requests, for one, and of course he's mad as hell at Gimli for endangering other people and himself in the quest for a cure. Besides, I had to write that scene, with the pounding on the glass in Chapter 18: Breath, because angry elves look very sexy haha.

**F. Eomer / Emmett Rigare - **It might not have done the character enough justice that he made it into the story simply as the preppy with the cash in a conference room... so I tried to insert a bit of hobbit charm in his well-oiled life. I also love it that he's in the middle of a conference, and lies to Elrohir and says he can talk. He will most definitely be figuring into FEE3 more strongly, if the muses accommodate. I like writing about Eomer; after "Last Stand," I had him in prominent positions in FEE1 and "Love, War."

**G. Boromir / Brad Greer – **Everybody knows I seldom write about Boromir, though more and more I find his conflict as one of the most interesting in the fic. In Chapter 15: Cure, Gimli asks:

_"Is it so surprising to find a man who once thought himself a sinner to wish others similarly misled to see the light that he had? I think not."_

Boromir is at the post-near-death stage of his life, where he got to asking himself "Now what?" He goes in search of a new destiny; new job, new place, new people. He's tired of burdening himself with the perceived sins of his past. He knows already that he's a good man, and now he just wants to find out what's next.

**H. The Arriving Elves – **writing about the 'older' elves actually massively intimidates me. You can probably tell by the two-dimensional characterizations that leave Elrond's wife and Galadriel's husband quite silent along the length of the fic. I guess I don't feel as comfortable writing about most of them, except maybe for Elrond, who has a bit more texture than the others in FEE2. From a creative standpoint though, they needed to be in the story. Remember in FEE1 I talked about how if there's a gun in scene one there's a body in scene three? That everything had to have a purpose? The older elves won't have as much depth as other characters but they are as important as 'the gun.' They are shapers of events, they are movers. It will seem more and more to you that while it seemed as if they returned only for a child's wedding, they returned for other reasons too. FEE2 suggests they arrived to help cure Ebola. FEE3 will give yet another reason: they are there to bring the remaining elves on Earth to Valinor (spoiler, haha!).

**I. Characters You May Have Been Looking For – **I tackled this already in introduction to FEE2:

"_This installment of FEE will feature as its main characters: Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Haldir, Boromir, Elladan and Elrohir only. __To all the hobbit fans, and those who were counting on Faramir, Eowyn and Eomer, I must apologize. The story just moved away from them.__ As I said before in my FEE1 notes, traditionally we expect many characters to be present, but I have to be economical:_

"_...the story is complex enough, without me having to 'force' characters into a fic just because I feel 'they have to be there' when I cannot yet think of a real purpose for them. As I said, if there's a gun in the first scene, there's a body in the next. Everyone has to have a place."_

_So, there. These are warnings I felt I had to make from the very start. I know some will be reading FEE2 to, say, look for the happy hobbit gang, and I'd hate to disappoint them if they found none. I sincerely hope that many will keep reading for the sake of the story, although I also understand the risks of losing part of my audience. Personally, I'm a character-driven reader and when I don't see who I like, I shy away from a story. I just thought you should know:)"_

There is one missing scene if FEE2 though, that I have decided to put in FEE3 instead. Elrond meets Adrian's mother, who looks like Arwen :)

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**IV. The Original Characters**

**A. The Craxis – **Anatalia, of course, is the largest gamble I've ever taken in LOTR fandom. She is an OFC, for one, she's nosy, she bags an elf, and the very first FEE began from her eyes! These are all generally no-no's in fanfiction! Up to now, I am still surprised by FEE1's reception, considering it began with her. I am still very much surprised that people stuck around, haha... Anyway, she does not figure prominently in FEE2, but her role will be renewed in FEE3. Her father Marcelo is also getting a few fans, I see... I made him out to be a bit like my dad, a bully to his daughter's suitors, haha:) It is so endearing. Here, it must be noted that he and Elladan are beginning to get a better understanding of each other. I'm totally going to toss Marcelo a curveball in FEE3 though! Of course Anatalia's indulgent mother is the same as always :)

**B. The Monteses – **A darker side of Rafe Montes is revealed in FEE2 and will only be heightened in FEE3. I obviously love the guy... He's a little lackluster next to Leland Greene, but I hope he came across as also intelligent, you know, a worthy partner to our favorite elf. I had to watch my writing carefully, to ensure that along the length of FEE2, some of the ideas came from him also. In FEE1, we get a picture of Montes' curiosity. In FEE2, this curiosity turns to distrust. In FEE3, it'll turn into something else again.

As for poor Julianna Montes... when I wrote her in FEE1 I never knew I was going to infect her, much less kill her in FEE2. I was saddened by the realization that this is something I felt the story needed, as it turned a darker corner. I think it was lovely Aranna Undomiel who pointed out that if I killed Joanna, I'd kill Rafe Montes also. I'm so glad that kind of bond between them was apparent, because that is exactly what I hoped to convey. Her death will turn him into somebody else. It was her death that turned the curiosity into distrust. The shift from the two states is so easy in any relationship, I think, be it friendship or worse, romantic relationships. Consider Temptation Island. Huh? What? Yes. You might be curious about how your boyfriend will do given all these temptations. And then you see a bit of this and that, they toss you an excellently edited innuendo or video clip, you want to see a bit more, and then suddenly, the shift to distrust.

**C. YinYang –** Poor YinYang never got a break. I wanted him to look cool. Asian guys have this detached hot-ness that I really appreciate. They can look blasé and unruffled. The discipline of the face is almost elf-like, the fluid movements, the quiet secrets. I tried to make him out to be Harding's young foil. He's not one of the big boys in the crime scene because he's a lone player, but a scarily talented one. He's smart, he's efficient, but the thing about him that I wanted most to convey is that he is young. He's unsure of things, and he knows it. This for me sums up the character, from Chapter 11: Plan B:

_'I must not be mistaken for the pure cold. That is so hideously uncomplicated. I find that I am, instead of uncaring, just simply deeply and profoundly ambivalent about many things. The money swings the decision, because it is the unquestionable quantitative factor. When you don't know what is black and what is white, the money gives you something concrete to rely on instead, and you do whatever gives you the money. Now the money's gone, my freedom's gone, and again, I'm caught between two decisions, and I'm not sure which is right.'_

He doesn't know right from wrong, so he relies on the money to give him an incentive instead. Again, not your usual villain. He was giving Haldir and co. clues, as he tried to decide what was the right thing to do. In the end, of course, he was robbed of the choice as the puzzle unfolded around him.

**D. Chandra Bouvier** – ah, the passionate and gifted madwoman. She is a doctor although in her distorted world view, people are the virus and Ebola is the cure. And she is still the doctor, tasked to make things right. Not evil, by the way, just misled. Or maybe crazy, I haven't decided that yet, if she is insane or not. But she is definitely lonely. I wrote this fic without a villain in mind. And then I got scared about blaming particular nationalities, because that wouldn't be very nice, haha... and then I started to think about the nature of the attack. You release something like Ebola, yo must be pissed as hell at everybody. And that was what she was, ultimately. She was angry, and she felt backed up into a corner. More than that though, and I hope it came across, I found her extremely lonely; she can't even take a decent picture of someone else, and that was symbolic for me. I did have a few concerns about making her my villain though.

(1) Is it consistent with her character?

I mean, throughout the fic, did I drop enough hints that this is something she is capable of? I wonder if anyone noted the breadcrumbs. She found 'the punishment for infringing on the Earth' as kind, for one. Note that in the conference with the U.S. President, everyone but her called him 'sir.' She asks Brad 'if the kid was breaking.' She talks to suspicious strangers in the dark. She never even tried to negotiate with their 'kidnappers' to make a phone call asking for help (she promised this to Brad in Chapter 8: Code Black), and later, Brad asks Harding and Goran if they were there because she reached them. She leaves the island early too, as if feeling they were about to get a break in the case.

(2) Is her cause believable?

Tricky question for me... how can I make it seem as if her reasons do not seem like a total cop-out? I mean, I was deep into the fic before I gave the terrorism a villain and a cause. How can I tie them together? The answer was staring me in the face. I think you will have noticed that her answer in Chapter 14: You Will Ask God Why, is the same as the reflections in Chapter 1: Antiques II. I think it gave the reason a kind of holistic, if accidentally achieved, kick.

So another thing you might be interested in knowing is this: what did she feel for Boromir? She is a hot older woman. It was almost flirtatious, the way she had given him her number. He made her wish she were somebody else. And yet she looked after him like a mother. And she is, ultimately, the villain of the story. I think she looked upon him as a friend. Maybe you can go further and say that she found a kind of fellow-drifter kinship with him. But well, suffice to say it might be obvious that I was toying with the idea of having Boromir link up with her romantically, before I scrapped the thought completely.

**E. Miscellaneous Characters** – The Captain is not Legolas' dad, although I like depicting him in a stern, fatherly fashion. Aldrin J. Marr is another worldly, shady semi-crook the archetype of which you can readily find in James Bond movies, created probably by virtue of Harding's resembling a James Bond-type character. And of course, we have the very young, idealistic coffee shop manager Chris, his fiery waitress Rina, almost-kidnapped girlfriend Cassie and extremist boyfriend Todd, who are there not for their depth but their contribution to the action. It is vital though, for readers to understand that there are no bad guys in this fic, just... bad choices.

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**V. Massive Thanks and Replies**

Okay gang, just thought I'd use this section to thank everybody and address any concerns you might have had re:FEE2 that I feel might not have been answered along the course of the story. I hope I didn't get cross-eyed and thank or reply to the wrong people. I am putting names in italics, and topics that might be of interest to other readers in bold. Anyway, here it is:

_A-zla:_ Oh truly, this is the only LOTR fic you're reading right now? Thank you so much for making it FEE2. Your time and feedback are highly appreciated.

_Ainu Laire_: Thank you so much for taking the time to make really insightful commentary. So you live in L.A., huh? I hope I didn't make any monumental geographical errors as I have never been there! This is also why I was so touched when you said I write as if I live in all these places I write about; if a local L.A. gal can think that, then I must have done a little bit of justice in the depiction of a place.

Also, **re: the multicultural gang**. You're right, it is quirky but I did the mix intentionally. We all know Ffnet is a very diverse community, and I'd hate to misrepresent a culture by insinuating any gang affiliations, thought it must be noted that gangs in actuality do tend to be racially-oriented, for a variety of practical reasons. Proximity to each other of where people live, communities who know each other, including 'ganging' together to help out a country man can give birth to a gang, as it is commonly perceived.

Lastly, **re: FEE3 Chaos**. As you may now guess, the groundwork has been set for the chaos of FEE3. FEE2, I think, can stand on its own, ultimately, but it does leave a few loose ends that I can play with in making FEE3, should I ever get around to doing that. Thee loose ends are the elvish cure, and the Leland Greene blood samples lying around somewhere :)

_Aranna Undomiel_: Tessa:) Thank you for your c&c's. Did you notice that somewhere along this afterword I mentioned one of your insights? That to kill Julianna is to kill Rafe? I adore your perception, which was also manifested in your correctly guessing Chandra as the terrorist :)

_AznRyoOhki_: Thank you very, very much for your consistent c&c's. If you e-mail me your e-mail address, you get a special treat as a gift of gratitude from me, for making the time to review; so few people have the time now, unfortunately. Even I'm not much of a reader or a reviewer of other people's work, so I recognize the efforts that you make. The gift won't be much of a surprise, but you might like it nonetheless. Hint: what else can a writer give? ;)

**re: Keeping the elf single in FEE3**, I don't think that would be much fun at all, don't you? Haha... I mean, if I'm writing him as having been around for centuries, wouldn't it be more depressing if he had nobody? This is definitely an avenue I'm exploring in FEE3, though not too deeply, don't worry. It will have a chapter-like approach to it, not an entire story focused on romancing a girl. If you've read the vignettes of "Last Stand" or "Love, War" then that will be the approach I'm taking on a legomance; just a small chapter in his long life. The preview below will give you an example of the style I'm adapting in FEE3. Besides, I'm hoping I won't let you down with an OFC, since you did say I've somehow managed to make original characters all right so far :)

_Joee1_: I think we both have that habit of listening to other people's conversations, haha... I love storytelling and just observing people and listening to their public conversations is part of all that, I guess :) Also, you reviewed every chapter of FEE2! Thank yous o much for keeping FEE2 alive with your comments and thoughts on everything. Your reviews are so profoundly appreciated. If you can give me your e-mail address, I have a special thank-you gift for you, and a few other reviewers who commented on over 90 of the chapters of FEE2 :)

_JunoMagic_: Thank you very much for your well-though out c&c's. I am so incredibly grateful for the time you took reviewing on almost every single chapter. Unfortunately, I am not Dan Brown, haha... If I were, I can make a lot of money doing what I love, haha. I am, however, also enjoying my real-life work in business. And one of the things the industry loves to do, is reward and retain customers, haha! So as a sign of my thanks, kindly send me your e-mail address, and I'll make it worth your while; as I told a few other reviewers, the gift won't be much of a surprise, but you might like it nonetheless. Hint: what else can a writer give? ;)

Also, **re: YinYang as a little fish**, I actually tried to make him out to be a young hot shot. Not little fish, he had to have menace and skill, he had to be a legitimate match to the will of Harding.

_Light Sorceress_: Oh wow, tips? Seriously, I'm hardly in a position to offer them haha... I need quite a lot of help myself. Just go do what you love, and if you keep working on it, you're bound to improve. Also, go out on a limb sometimes! Innovation is fun, and it keeps everything dynamic. Lastly, cover your ass, haha... if you're making assumptions, research it! Wikipedia is a great place to start for basic stuff, then you can research people, events and things that are more specific from there. These are all things you probably know already but they sure help me :)

_M&M's:_ Actually about Richard Preston's "Hot Zone," I was inspired to write about the bioterrorsim issue because of his black biology trilogy. He's a really compelling writer, I am not fit at all to kiss this guy's toes or something, haha... I always recommend his works, and have recommended them since before I wrote FEE1 :)

_Starlit Jewel_: Sorry about the swearing, but I think this is my most natural state, haha... I have been told I have a potty mouth. I hope I didn't offend people :)

_Lukeyoung and Ilxwing_: Hi girls, just wanted to give you a shout out and thank you for keeping FEE2 alive for me. You really have no idea how great your impact was :)

And of course, MASSIVE thanks go out to my reviewers: _Aki and Tenshi, Ali64, Andolin, Aodcharmedfan2005, Arayelle Lynn, Balrogs Breath, Blaise 821, Booklover fanatic, Bridget, Calenlass, Cheetahluke, Clevermushroom, Crystal 113, dragonfly, Elvenqueenwren, Erandir, Edwina, Eyes of Sky, Gilraen Aclemense, Heryn-o-eryn-duin, Ingu, Inthisdarcness, Irish Anor, Jaylen, JC, Jen, Kaitokitty, K'lara7, Kim, Kirsten Z, Lady deb, Lady Lunas, Laer4572, Lisette, Luiniel, Lulu Belle, Margie, MkofGod, Nessa ar-feiniel, Niriel Raina, Orlandochick05, Phoenixqueen, Phyloxena, Platy, Rosa Lui, Rosabel, Sangfroid, Scatteredbrains, Sidhnanhediel, Simply Christine, Stonage Woman, Templa Otmena, The Cheese Turkey, T.reymaine and Zublefir._ It'd take me forever to go into detail, but I swear you helped keep FEE alive for me. Posting to silence can be so disheartening, don't you think:)

Thank you very much and I sincerely hope I got to list down everybody! If you reviewed and you're not here, send me a shout out as I want to make sure everyone knows how much I value their time. I know it's so hard now. I truly appreciate the effort, and if you get skipped, it might just be that I'm cross-eyed already, haha!

**

* * *

****VI. A Preview of For Every Evil 3**

Okay, guys... A tiny preview of FEE3. Structurally, it will be quite different from FEE's 1 and 2. Expect a lot of flashbacks. We will be hearing the stories behind the FEE1 photographs featuring Legolas that Anatalia had found, along with the modern storyline unfolding.

Again, no promises... this may come out in a few months, maybe a few years, maybe never... but it is my only LOTR project in mind as of now, not to mention I know you guys know I don't like sequels, I prefer trilogies, so I am cautiously optimistic. It will also have a small section I'm dying to try to write, just to test myself. If you want a clue, check out the hint Legolas dropped Aragorn in Chapter 2: Missing Pieces.

Until then, here's a little something for you:

Title: For Every Evil 3

Author: Mirrordance

Summary: For every evil that rises,we are given ways to fight it.The only evil this time is a road of good intentions,as the secret of the elves are revealed and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them,or be the last of their kind to leave it.

* * *

1: Antiques, 3

* * *

Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

"He's too goddamn fast," was the first and last, anxiously whispered thing he had heard from them, before the urgency of their silent chase escalated, and the words broke into harsh breaths and lightning-quick, light footsteps.

There was something almost unnatural about the pursuit even from the onset, Leland Greene reflected as he ran, gun poised before him at the ready. It was unnaturally difficult, and when he heard the voices with his uniquely sharp ears and came to the frightening realization that his coming was no surprise, nor an inconvenience, he was struck by the fairly alien feeling of _fear_.

The day started out normally enough. A Monday, of all things, which had always been hellish for as far back as he could remember. Ever since someone thought to name the day there had been someone around to complain about it. It was an ancient, inarguable truth.

_He bought two cups of Starbucks coffee, as usual. The line was long, and there was an old lady in front of him who had a thick, exotic accent that no one could understand, and she was asking for something very specific. The man behind him moved to the other long line, and got his order before Leland could even touch his counter, as the old lady was still there. Fairly annoying, startlingly normal occurrence._

_He brought said two coffee cups to his office, where he arrived uncharacteristically late. His partner of almost a decade was waiting for him, scowling. Leland offered Rafael Montes the cup of coffee, which he declined wordlessly and with a fair amount of hostility that was his norm toward Greene nowadays._

_Leland took the rejection calmly, with a measure of annoyance, but mostly regret. The last few weeks have been harsh for Montes, he knew. They were friends of incredibly long-standing, and Leland was trying his hardest to give him the time he needed to realize his anger at Leland was deeply and profoundly misplaced._

_"My goddamn transfer is taking too goddamn long," Montes said, blanching at the coffee he had bullied from someone else._

_Leland's instinctive feeling was that of annoyance and indignation. Montes' words, and the last few weeks of strained interaction between the two former-friends was enough to court a princely temper this Monday morning, "That's probably because blaming me for Julianna's death couldn't have been regarded as a logical reason for a request that the captain or anyone in a decent frame of mind would accept."_

_"In not so many words I just told them I can't rust you," Montes said, simply, hurtfully, and Leland suspected with an aching heart, quite truthfully._

_"Because she's dead and I'm not?" Leland asked, his voice rising, "That my friends are not?!"_

_"We've had this conversation before," Montes said, pushing his way past Greene. The blond grabbed him by the arm and looked at him closely._

_"We'll have it again," Leland insisted._

_Montes stared at him, "You've always been smarter than me. Better, and smarter. But damned if you're going to treat me like I'm a stupid ass here. I know something is going on. I've always known--"_

_"You've always known something was going on," seethed Greene, "It has nothing at all to do with your wife."_

_"Yeah well," snapped Montes, "I find that hard to believe, especially since lately, I find anything that happens anywhere has you and your friends right in the middle of it. That last time, it happened right in my goddamn backyard and now she's dead. You are in the middle of the mess that got her killed, Greene."_

_"What did you want me to do, Montes?" Leland asked, "Whip the cure from my ass?"_

_Montes' face turned a deep shade of crazily angry red, and then Leland's own offended anger began to vanish, leaving this awning, reluctant, inescapable... nothing._

Montes would have hit him, he knew, if Montes were a lesser man. But he just walked away, and then they worked themselves to the ground the rest of the day, barely speaking, work that included taking that unidentified caller who knew far too much than he should have about, and offering even more information on, an open case.

And then the running started, and it began to take the shape of a set-up.

The 'informant' they had met peered at them from the shadows of their warehouse meeting place and shot off like a rocket. Greene, who was always the better runner, took off after him at a dead run. Montes followed after a breath, but it was not at all long before the man's heavy, running footsteps faded further and further behind Greene and the man he was pursuing.

"He's too goddamn fast," the runner gasped, likely to accomplices listening in on a comm device.

He twists, he turns, Leland follows the shift. The set-up seemed professional, and he was following like a fool but he could hardly just stand still and watch him leave.

"Montes," Leland said over his own digital radio as they burst from out the warehouse's back door, "Call for back-up."

"They're calling for back-up," Leland's elven ears heard, another voice, from somewhere...

_They couldn't have heard me_, he thought, thinking their own devices were being monitored, _What is this..._

His prey jumped a wire fence, landed neatly, crouched on two feet, graceful as a cat. Leland followed suit, practically jumped right on top of him, except he dodged cleanly and started running again, towards a dark alley. Just beyond the narrow way was a well-lit, busy, noisy street.

_People_, Leland thought, quickening his pace, _I could lose him. Worse, he can hurt others._

"He's too goddamn fast," the runner said again, "You have to hit him now!"

Leland stopped dead in his tracks. Instinctively, his ears strained for the sound of a released bullet, hoping to dodge it, knowing nothing else of the situation.

The sound that followed was so deceptively soft, and unexpected.

_Arrow?_, he thought, belatedly, as it was not a sound he'd heard in _ages_.

A slim dart made it's way to his neck.

Stunned, he took a step back before tearing it from his skin, horrified. He pocketed it for investigation later, as he ducked behind a large trash can for cover. His eyes roved the area. He quited his breaths, tried to ease the pounding of his heart.

_Come out, come out, _he thought, seeking a sound, a scent, a breath of movement. He had never been the prey, not like this, _never_...

"Greene!" Montes barked at him over the radio, and he dodged as another arrow made its way toward his head.

"I copy, you've called for reinforcements?" Leland asked him in a low voice.

"Yeah, you got him?" Montes asked.

"No," Leland replied, hesitating for a moment, "I think they're trying to get us. And they're listening in."

"What?" Montes exclaimed.

"Watch out," said Greene, "It's a set-up, they're trying to get us, and I think they bugged us." He grimaced, editing the part where they had tried to stick him with a dart and whatever they may have coated it in.

_Or succeeded, that is, _Greene reminded himself. Either way, he was unconcerned for himself. Whatever it was, it should have, at the very least, a profoundly diminished effect on th eleven physiology.

Greene was getting deeply and profoundly annoyed, however, when he noticed that he may have been mistaken about the potency of that thrice-damned dart. His fingers felt cold, and heavy. They felt thick and numb and unmanageable, and if he did not look to see they looked quite the same as before, he would have sworn they were swollen, or, or _detached_!

"What do you want?" Leland Greene called out to his hunters, the sound of his own voice feeling loud and hollow to his ears.

_Potent stuff_, he thought, almost dejectedly.

"We are LAPD," Greene added, "You called us in. We can protect you, if you help us. If we get into some trouble here, I guarantee you it will be much, much more than you can handle."

Another dart whizzed past him and his can/shield. And another caught one of his dull, unresponsive hands. He muttered a curse and tore it off with some difficulty.

_Potent stuff_, he thought again, tossing his head from side to side, clearing his head. He could feel his heart beating slower, much slower than his more standard, healthy, warrior's calm.

"What do you..." he drawled at his potential captors, finding his tongue as thick as his dull, useless hands. He gulped, "What do you want?"

_Damn it_, he thought, thinking it might be wise to disclose his situation to Montes more... _um_...concretely.

"Montes," he struggled through his comm radio, "They hit me with something."

"Where the hell are you, Greene?" his partner asked, concern evident even in his raised, irritated voice, "Where are you hit?"

Leland gulped, "Alley out back. They have a clear view of us from somewhere. Don't go out here. I'm trying to find a way back in, or out somewhere else. They're trying to get us."

"Hang on," Montes commanded, "I can hear the sirens, back-up's close."

_I can't hear anything_, Leland wondered. He looked back at the wire fence and the warehouse beyond it, and then at the alley he was in. The man he was chasing had already vanished into the city crowd.

_Damn_, he thought. He looked up at the dark windows on the upper floors of the two buildings lining the alley he was in.

_I'm a sitting duck_, he deduced, and his cover would not do at all. All his shooter/s had to do was move to another window for a better angle. .

His fingers tingled, and his feet were fast becoming numb also. His reactions were slowing, though his thoughts remained sharp.

_Whoever is after me_, he concluded by the slight break he was getting in the dart-barrage, _is repositioning his aim._

_I'm losing consciousness_, he also suspected, _If I drop here, they will get me_.

He looked behind him at the fence. He couldn't climb it, not like this. He looked at the alley, where the man he was pursuing had run and vanished into.

_People_.

_Help_, he concluded.

_Now_.

He pushed to his feet, and staggered as he ran forward. More darts sprayed behind him. He dodged, or swayed, _whatever_, as long as they did not hit, he was satisfied. He pushed forward, toward the street, toward the lights and the sounds and the _people_, where he would be safer.

He stumbled out onto the street and into the path of hot, glaring lights. A horn sounded, and tires screeched, and the dull sound of metal barreling ruthlessly against flesh broke into the night.

He knew what had hit him, by the gods, did he know. These sounds created an algorithm that was distinct and unmistakable. He just did not think it was a fair.

But it was, he reflected, a perfect cap to a Monday gone appropriately sour.

_

* * *

Roanoke Island, Virginia_

_The New World_

_1585

* * *

_

_Sight returned though he did not expect it, nor, after his other senses returned and flared with it, did he want it._

_Legolas was thirsty, and weary to the core of his bones. His body ached, and he attributed this primarily to having been battered and tossed around by the water that still bogged loosely around him, and probably from not having moved in hours._

Or days, _he thought wryly, shaking his arms, wet sand clinging to his clothing. He looked up blearily at the beach he had washed upon, extremely grateful for at least reaching some form of land._

_He smirked a little, and his heart started to beat a little bit faster. _

I'm back_, he thought_.

_He turned his head to the left, noting that wherever it was the waves have brought him was not his targeted area. The foliage was wilder, untamed and unfamiliar. It was much warmer also. But at least it was Middle Earth, and likely all he needed was someone who could point him in the right direction._

I'm back...

_He turned his head to the right, and frowned upon a man staring at him and sitting on one of the elven chests he had brought with him on his (_now shattered_) ship for his journey. The weathered old man had clear, penetrating eyes, a narrow, sharp gaze, and a small, stern mouth. The hair color, he could not see from beneath the hat._

_Legolas cleared his throat and pushed himself up to his knees. _

_"I beg you stay still," the old man said, pointing an odd, L-shaped steel and wood contraption at him. Legolas deduced it was supposed to be threatening, from how the man wielded it with unabashed confidence and control._

_Legolas opened his hands in a non-threatening manner, "I was told that things have changed from when me and my kind were last seen here. I do not know what it is you expect of us, but I guarantee you I am no danger to you."_

_The old man's brows furrowed. He was obviously confused about what Legolas had just said. "I saw your ship during the storm days ago, just after we docked here. We watched it break on the rocks. I did not think I would find anyone alive. But it is just as well. Spies are to be shot."_

_Legolas' eyes widened, "I am no spy!"_

_"Your manner of speech is like my own," the man continued, "But I looked among your things and found art and writing that looked as if it had Moorish influences. Spain," he said heavily, "and the Moors are heavily connected."_

_Legolas must have looked bewildered. "I am an elf-prince of the Greenwood Realm. I know not of what you speak."_

_"Elf, are you," the man asked, his eyes glinting, mocking, "And prince too! Well if we are dreaming we might as well reach for the stars, eh, lad? Of course you are an elf-prince. Why did I not think of that? For that matter, why did I not think to sprout wings and simply return home to England?"_

_"You mock me and I wish to know why, or to have your sincerest apologies, at the least," Legolas told him, coldly, beginning to rise up to his feet._

_"You will stay still, spy!" the old man ordered, waving his odd weapon._

_"I will have the respect you owe," Legolas retorted._

_"I owe nothing!" the man exclaimed, before pointing his weapon to the ground near the elf's feet, and pressing upon one of its odd levers. The ground near Legolas... _exploded_, for lack of a better term, making him jump back._

Interesting_, Legolas thought, darkly._

_"That was uncalled for," Legolas told him, coolly._

_"You will come with me and see my Captain," said the man._

_Legolas tilted his head at the fiery old fellow. "If he exercises better judgment than you, then I should be much obliged."_

_"If my judgment were better," said the other, "I'd have shot you where it counts."_

_"If your judgment were better," Legolas retorted, distractedly straightening out his clothes and patting down his hair. He tucked the golden strands framing his face behind his elven ears, "You would treat me more fairly. I only once ruled upon these lands before, it could not have been too long ago. If you were better read, perhaps, more knowledgeable of your own history. But well. That is neither here nor there. Show me to him--"_

_Legolas stopped dead, when he noticed that all antagonism had left the man's face, to be replaced by a look of fear, awe, and just complete and utter disbelief._

_"Elf," the old man said, breathlessly._

_"That is what I have been saying," Legolas said, frustrated, "I just need you to lend me a horse, I can pay in gold or mithril, but I will need one. And I need you to tell me where I am precisely, that I might make my way to Ithilien."_

_"An elf," the man repeated, appearing quite stuck with the thought. He peered at Legolas' ears some more, "Or perhaps a birth defect of a sort. I have always been a rational man..."_

_"What are you babbling about, man?" Legolas asked, impatiently, "Where are we? Which way might be best to Ithilien or Gondor, and would you sell me a horse?"_

_"If you have gold I would love it," the man replied, cautiously, "We are in Virginia, and I know not of these places that you seek."_

_

* * *

_

_The old man led him to a small wooden lodge, a few steps into the forest that lay beyond the sandy shore. He said his name was Davenport, and that he should not worry about the belongings he arrived with, for there was _no one _on this part of the island but the two of them._

_"Virginia," Legolas echoed, trying to recall if he had ever heard of such a place in any of his travels. And he and the dwarf had traveled a lot._

The dwarf_, he thought, before eliminating the memory completely. He had to focus. If he were to find his way to Ithilien from this strange, unknown place, he needed to concentrate. It must be far, especially if the man had never heard of his land before._

_The wooden cottage was sparsely furnished, incredibly clean, though it felt lived in, still. Legolas saw a desk, a bed, and a night stand bearing tiny portraits of a country house and a beautiful woman. There were also quite a number of books here and there. The man had the habits of a voracious learner._

_Davenport rolled out a map on his desk, as Legolas drew out his own map from his coat. He had it coated in wax, such that it remained dry even with the onslaught of the sea and Manwe's winds._

Punishing winds_, he thought wryly, the winds that have brought him here out of his stubborn desire to go back to Middle-Earth from beyond its glorious circles._

_Man and elf frowned, as they set the maps side by side. Legolas turned over his small map, trying to find an angle where his Middle-Earth could possibly fit._

_Davenport's map was wide and gently watercolored in hues of blue and pink. The blue he assumed to be water, surrounding several chunks of oddly-shaped land masses. In bold Westron, he saw a large parcel of land labeled "EVROPA," another to its right read "ASIA," slightly beneath the middle of these was "AFRICA," and to the left of all these, a bit less connected to everything else, was "AMERICA- Die Nieve Weld." _

_"Odd," the elf murmured, wondering if they had changed the names of the countries, but finding even in terms of the shape of the land, his Middle Earth was nowhere to be found._

_"We are here," Davenport pointed to 'AMERICA,' "The New World, you see?"_

_"These maps are accurate?" Legolas asked._

_"I am a sailor," said Davenport, "There are certain inaccuracies, we are still seeing the length of the world. The Queen is aggressively forming and reforming how it looks in my mind. But essentially, cartographers from all over the world have agreed this is a fair portrait of the world." Davenport reached for the elf's map, studied it a bit, "This looks quite dated, doesn't it?"_

_"I spent perhaps centuries in Aman," said the elf, "I did not keep track of time. There was no reason why anyone there should keep a map of Middle-Earth and so it is old, one from when I was a soldier, long ago."_

_"You were a soldier?" asked Davenport, looking him over skeptically. _

_"I commanded my kingdom's army," Legolas murmured, studying over the maps, "You have truly never heard of Ithilien?"_

_"No, for which I am sorry," said Davenport._

_"How about Gondor? Arnor? Rohan? Imladris? Greenwood? Even Mordor, perhaps, I just need a point of reference," Legolas added._

_"I have never heard of these places," Davenport replied, watching his face carefully, "And I doubt anyone can tell you if I could not. Aside from the fact that we must go to the other end of the island to consult with my fellows, I count amongst the most learned of them, if I may say so. I am quite convinced that you are utterly mad, or profoundly lost. The fact that you have the appearance of an elf compounds matters more. Perhaps you are a ghost. Or _I _am utterly mad."_

_"I _am_ an elf," Legolas insisted._

_"Are the places you seek elven realms?" Davenport asked._

_"Not since we left it," the elf replied, "But there would be books, writings. Someone would know if the names of our kingdoms were changed. Or..." he glanced doubtfully at the maps, "Where they _went_, at least. I believe I am profoundly lost."_

To be continued...

I guess that's it for now, guys. Thank you for the support. Wish me luck and, 'TIL THE NEXT POST!


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